W.i'' 




i 




:.iaAUCER. 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 




ATHOLI 



u 




OETS 



YWU eflAD6ER TO THE PRESENT DAY. 



risfio-is«i.) 



ETilTED B\_. ' 



ELIOT *RYDER.2^ 



"the poKTRV or kakiu in tt-ftrk dead." 



UM.l^. h\ 



joseph a . lyons, 
thp: university of notre dame: 

XOTKE DAME, INDIANA. 

1881. 



7K 



H\ 



< 



f<:^* 



C O P Y K I G U T , 1 S S 1 . 

By JOSEPH A. LYONS, A. M . L L . I) . 

ALL K I G U 1' S K K » E K V E I> . 



PREFACE 



No history of the Church would hv complete without a Jiistory of its 
literature; and no liistory of its literature would be complete without a 
comprehensive review of the poetry written by Catholics. Keats has beau- 
tifully and truly said that '"The poetry of earth is never dead." While 
the world lasts there will be poets to make verses, and people to read them. 

For poetr}', then, there is, and will always be, a demand. In this 
department of literature there are many sources of supply, but the lover 
of good verse is very apt to choose for liis reading some of the works of 
poets widely known to fame. That this is right and proper no one will 
call in question ; but there is a tendency to ignore the excellent work of 
many whom only the difflculty of access to their writings has prevented 
from betomiug famous. The lover of literature, unless he be a student, 
does not like to prepare his feasts of reason for himself ; he chooses, 
rather, to enjoy the dainty repasts provided b}- the patient labors of love 
of those who, knowing his desires and his nidolence, secure a reading of 
selections from their favorite authors b}- presenting tlitm in an attractive 
and convenient form. Hence the profusion of anthologies which happily 
furnish delight to the reader and spare liim a labor always arduous, and 
in too many instances distasteful 

Some years ago it was remarked to the editor of this volume by a 
learned clergyman in New York: ''How few persons are aware of the 
magnitude and excellence of the contributions to literature made by 
Catholics ! Take the field of poetry, for instance ; how many persons can 
tell you the names of a dozen Catholic poets'? They may know the poets, 
and be familiar witli their works, but tliey do not know them as Catholics 
The Reformation followed close upon the invention of printing, and all 
things pertaining to Catholic faith have been carefiflly withheld from the 
people. It is time that the chiUlren of our own Church should know what 
members of the Catholic faith have done : and that those who assume them 
to be lacking in either the power to produce, or the capacity to appreciate, 
literature, should be shown how egregiously tliey are in error." 

(V.) 



vi. PREFACE. 

This couversaliou resullod in llic uudertaking of whicli liiis volume is 
the i'ruit. It is to be questioned wliellier auy poetic collection was ever 
attended ^^•ith so many obstacles, and such great difficulties. As the very 
reverend clergyman had pointed out, it was by no means easy to locate 
many poets as Catholics. The various dictionaries and cyclopiedias of 
literature, all of them edited by Protestants, have carefully concealed the 
religious faith of nearly all Catholic writers of eminence, and those who 
were not exceedingly well known to fame have been ignoix'd altogether. 
When (as in the case of Po2)e; a writer's Catholicity has been noted, it is 
with an- assumption of surprise that any thing good could come from a 
"Papist" source. Indeed it may be truly said that the researches recjuired 
in ascertaining who were, and who were not. Catholics, has constituted the 
chief labor in preparing this volume. 

It has not been intended to include here a selection from all Catholics 
who have written poetiy. Several of the earlier English poets have been 
omitted for the reason that their productions figure but slightly in literature 
al the present day, and because their language, long since obsolete, is so 
unintelligible to the average reader, as to render selections from them 
uninteresting and unprofitable. Other omissions may be noted, for which 
to most readers the reasons will be obvious. Indeed, it is hardly to be 
expected that one should hope to find all his favorite poems includetl in 
any collection, however large. Few persons are agreed as to the merits 
of any one poem, and in compilations the compiler must be largely guided 
by his own taste and preference, although he may in some degree be infiu- 
enced by the varied and accepted judgments of others. The necessities 
imposed upon the editor have impelled him to take his selections almost 
entirely from the lyrical productions of the poets rejiresented ; and wherever 
practicable, the briefest poems have been used, in order that the volume 
might not assume too large proportions. In all cases where a poet of the 
first rank has been quoted, the utmost care has been used to con.sult the 
best editions ; and in the cases of others the selections have been taken 
from standard sources. The chronological arrangement has been adopted 
as affording a general survey of the progress of Catholic coutribution.s to 
poetic literature in connection with history. It is greatly to be regretted 
that this design could not be fully carried out, l)ut the timid modesty of 
many writers of the present day has prevented this, and Las necessitated 
an appendix with an alphabetical classification. It is to be hoped that tliis 



PREFACE. vu 

feature, which in a measure detracts from Ihc making of a perfect booli, 
m»y be remedied in thj near future, but this can not be done without the 
co-operation of the authors themselves. Tliere has been no purpose to 
present lengthy biographies, but rather to create a desire among the Catholic 
people to cultivate and explore for themselves the many beauties which 
their own brethren in the faith have produced. If in some instances it be 
noted that unusual space is given to the notice of an author, it will l)e 
found that information is conveyetl which can not be obtained in ordinary 
channels. 

The editor is not unaware of the learned discussions which liave taken 
place concerning the Oatholicity of Shakspere, and the ultimate return to 
the faith of ]\Iilton, as well as of the conversion of some other prominent 
poets. But it has been thought best not to admit into this work any 
matter which is open to d()ul)t. 

Especially is it desired that our poets of the younger generation shall 
meet witli that encouragement so often withheld, but which, when given, 
so frequently stimulates to vigorous effort fertile powers which had else 
lain dormant. For this reason the names of many whose ascent of Moun!, 
Parnassus has little more than begun, have been admitted. 

It is with deep gratitude that the editor acknowleges the services 
i-endered liim by various members of the clergy and literati. Especially is 
lie indebted to the Rev. James. J. Dougherty, John Savage, LL.D., John 
Boyle, Esq., Maurice F. Egau and Peter F. Collier, of New York City; the 
Very Rev. J. A. Rochford, O.P., of Washington, D. C, the Rev. D. E. 
Hudson, C.S.C, and the faculty of the University of Xotre Dame, and to 
Boyle O'Reilly, LL.D., of Boston. ELIOT RYDER. 

Univkusity of Notre Dame, August 15, 188L 



NAMES OF 


THE POETS. 


Acton, John. 


Ellet, Mrs. Elizabktfi Fuiks. 


Andrew op Wtntoun. 


Emery, Susan L. v 


Arkington, Alfred W. 


EsLiNG, Charles H. A. 


AzARiAS, Brother. 




^ 


Faber, Rev. Frederic William. I). 1) 


Banim, John. 


Fitzgerald, Annie A 


Barbour, John. 


Fitzgerald. Marcella F. 


Benson, John K. 


Foran, James K. 


Berners. Juliana. 


Fullerton. Lady Georgian v. 


Blake, Mrs. Mary K. 




Boyle, John. 


Gahan, James Joseph. 


Brann, Rev. Henry A.. T). I). 


Garland, He.nry W. I. 


Brenan, Joseph. 


Geoghegan, William. 


Brown, Kev. Michael B 


(iODDARD, Vinton Augustixk. 


BuKKE, Mrs. Mary C. 


(iRiFFiN, Gerald. 


Birke, Rev. Thomas N., O. P. 
BuTLEK, Rev. Thomas Ambrose. 


Habington, William. 
Hamilton, William. 


Callanan, Jeremiah Joseph. 
Cassidy, Patrick Sarsfield. 
Caswall, Rev. Edward. 
Chaucer, Geoffrey. 
Cokain, Sir Aston. 
Connolly, Daniel. 
Constable, Henry. 
Conway, Katherine Kleanok. 


Hendry. Elizabeth Cakmki. 

Henrysoun, Robert. 

Hill, Rev. B D (FatlR'i- Eilimiml, C. P.j 

HoLLow.i^Y, Mrs. E. B. 

Hosmer, William H. C. 

Howard. Timothy E. 

Huntington, J. V. 

Hyde, Edward. 


Cook, Edith W. 


James I., of Scotland. 


Crash.\w, Richard. 
Ckonin, Rev. Patrick. 


Joyce, Robert Dwyer. 


CuMMiNGS, Rev. Jeremiah W., I). D. 


Keegan, John Curran. 


CURTIN, J. C. 


Kelly, William D. 


Dahlgren, Mrs. Madeleine Vinton. 


Kelly, William J. 
Kelly, William Louis. 


Davenant, William. 
Ue Verb, Sir Aubrey. 


Ketchum, Mrs. Annie Chambers. 


DiGBY, Sir Kenelme. 


Locke, John. 


Donnelly, Eleanor C. 


Lodge, Thomas. 


DoKSEY, JIf>s. Anna Hanson. 




DORWARD, Bernard Isaac. 


Mag INN, William. 


Douglas, Gavin. 


Mahony, Rev. Francis. 


DoYLE, P. Henry. 


Mangan, James Clarence. 


Dryden, John. 


Mannix, Mrs. Mary E. 


Duffy, Charles Gavan. 


Mary, Queen of Scots. 


Dunbar, William. 


Massinger, Philip. 




McCarthy, Denis Florence. 


Egan, Maurice Francis. 


McGee, Thomas D'Arcy. 


Elder, Mrs. Susan Blanchabd. 


McGkoghbgan, Thomas J. 




ix 



NAMES OF THE POETS. 



McLkod, Rev. Don'ald Xavier. 

McNamara, James. 

McPhelim. E. J. 

McPhelim, K. T. 

Mkehan, Rev. Charles. 

Miles, Geougk Henky. 

mooke, tuomas. 

More, Sir Thomas. 

MoiR, Marton. 

Mullen, Rev. Michael, I). 1) 

Newmak, Cardinal .1. H. 
XoRRis, Joseph W. S. 

O'Callaghan, T. D. 
O'Connor, Miciiakl. 
O'Hagan, Tho.mas. 
O'Hara, Theodore. 
O'Meara, Henry. 
O'Reilly, John Boyle. 
O'Ryan, Fkaxk. 

Patmore, Coventry. 
Phelan, Agnes V. M. 
Pope, Alexander. 
Procter, Adelaide .Vnne. 
Purcell, V. Rev. Edward. 

Roberts, Rebecca V. 

ROCHFURD, V. RkV. Joh.N .\ . 

RouQi'ETTE, Rev. Adrian. 
RossETTi, Christina G. 



RossETTi, Dante Gabriel. 
Russell, Rev. Matthew S. J. 
Evan, Rev. Abram J. 
Ryder, Eliot. 

Sadlier, Anna T. 

Savage, John. "" 

Scanlan, John F. 

Scanlan, Michael. 

Seton, Emily. 

Seton, William. 

Sherburne, Sir P^dward. 

Shirley, James. 

Skid-more, Harriet M. 

Smith, Sarah T. 

Southwell, Rev. Robert, 8. .1. 

Stage, Arthur J. 

Starr, Miss Eliza Allen. 

Stoddard, Charles Warrex. 

Stone, Rev. James Kent (FiUIut KiiU-lis.C.P 

Sullivan, Mrs. Margaret F. 

Tabu, John H. 

Treacv, Rev. William T., S J. 

Wavle.n-, Elizabeth. 
Wuitaker, Lily C. 
Whitaker, Mrs. M. S. 
Wilde, Rich.vrd Henry. 
Williams, Richard Dalton. 
Wiseman, Cardinal. 



Names of the Poets and Titles of the Poems, 



ARKAXGED IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORUEK. 



Geoffrey Chai'cek, 13 14()U, - 

To My Empty Purse, 

Praise of Womeu, 
\ An April Day, 
John Barbour, 1326 — 13JJ, 

Apostrophe to Freedom, 
Andrew of Wyntoun, (About) 14UU, 

Interview of St. Serf with Satlia 
James I., of Scotland, 1395 — 143T, 
Juliana Berners, 1400 — 

From the Epilogue, - 
Robert Hexrysonn, 14 i.'iUS. 

Tlie Garment of Good Ladies. 
AViLLiAM Dunbar, 1165—1520, 

Of Discretion in Giving, 

Of Discretion in Talcing, 
Gavin Douglas, 1474 — 1522, 

From a Description of May. 
Sir Thomas More, 1480— 15.^"), 

Fortune Described, 
Mary, Queen of Scots, 1342 i.")SS, 

Sonnet, - - - 

Robert Southwell, 1560 — 15H5. .- 

Love's Servile Lot, 

Time Goes by Turns. 

Loss In Delays, 
Thomas Lodge, 1556 — 1625, 

Rosalind's Madrigal, 
Hknry Constable, 1566 — 

Love's Troubles, - 

Damolus' Song to his Dia))lirin;i, 
I'HiLlP Massingek, 1584 — 16411, 

Death, - - - - 

.Iames Shirley, 1594 -1666, 

The Passing Bell, 

Death's Final Conquest. - 

Sir Kenelmk DlGBY, 1603 — l«6."i. - 

Life, 

Sii: William Davenant. 1605—1668, 
The Soldier Boy Going to the Fi 
Song, - - . - 

\Villiam Habixgion, 1605—1664, 
Cpon Castara's Departure, 
To Roses in the Bosom of Casim 



ige 
IT 

IT 
IT 
IT 
18 
IS 



William H.\bington— Continued. 

The Moment Last Past, 

A Lesson for Belles, 
Sir Aston Cokain, 1608—1683, 

To Plautia, 
Richard Crashaw, 1616—1630, 

Out of the Italian, 
rtin Edward Sherburne, 1618 — 1T02, 

Love Once, Love Ever, 
.'oiiv Dryden, 1631— ITOO, ■ 

Ode to St. Cecilia's Day, - 

An Incantation, 
Alkxander Pope, 1688— 1T41, - 

On Pride, 

The Jlessiah, 

The Dying Christian to liis Soul, 
William Hamilton, 1T04 — 1754, 

Song, - - - - 

Thomas Moore, 1779 — 1833, 

The Meeting of the Waters. - 

(), Blame Not the Bard! - 

The Lake of the Dismal Swamp, 

Rich and Rare were tlie Gems Sli 
Wore, - - - 

A Hymn, - - - - 

Richard Henry Wilde, 1789- 1S4T. 

My Life is Like the Summer Rose. 
William Maginn, 1794-1842, 

I Give My Soldier Boy a Blade, - 
.T..L Callanan, 1795— 1829, 

Mary Magdalene, - 

If I Lose Tliee, I am Lost. - 
John Banim, 1798-1842, 

Ailleen, 
Rev. Francis Mahony iKatlur Trout 
1800(?)— 1866. - 

The Bells of Sluuulon, 

The Flight into Egypt. 

Popular Recollections of lidiiiiiiarn 
Cardinal Newman, 1801— 

The Queen of the Seasons. 

Valentine to a Little Girl. 

Submission, 
Cardinal Wiseman. 1SU2— 1865. - 

Sonnet, 



Page 

■ 29 
30 

■ 30 
30 

- 30 
30 



xii NAMES OF POETS 


AND TITLES OF POEMS. 




Cardixai, Wiseman — Continued. Vxgh 




1'agk 


Sonnet to St. Thomas, 


4,5 


I^EV. .1. W. CUMMINGS, D. D., 1822— 1SC,6, 


711 


Jamks Clarence Manoan, 1S03— 1S4<i. 


l.". 


Light, the King of Colors, 


70 


And Then Xo More, - 


k; 


Miss R. V. Roberts, 1823— 


- 71 


Tlic Nameless One, 


46 


Tlie Threefold Wedding Rin;:. - 


71 


Dark Rosaleen, 


47 


Cotentry Patmore, 1823— 


- 71 


Ellen Uawn, 


48 


Parting, - _ - _ 


72 


(Jkiiald Griffin, 1803-1840, 


48 


The Wise, _ - _ 


- 72 


A Place in Thy Memory, 


48 


Let Wisdom be Glad and Fai:-, 


72 


The Sister of Charity, 


49 


Honoria, _ - _ 


- 72 


The Choice of Friends, - 


50 


The Toys, - - - - 


72 


V. Kev. Edward Purcell, 1803—1881. - 


50 


George H. Miles, 1824 — 1871, 


- 73 


The Autumn Leaf, 


50 


Said the Rose, 


73 


Denis Florence McCarthy, 1810 - 


51 


p;liza Allen Starr, 1824 — 


- 74 


Waiting for the May, 


51 


In the Timber, 


74 


The Pillar Towers of Ireland. 


52 


The Fringed Gentian, 


75 


A Shamrock from the Irish Shore, 


53 


Occultation of Venus, 


75 


Alfred W. Akrington, 1810—1867, 


54 


Thomas D'Arcy McGee, 1825 — 1867, 


- 76 


O, for the Wings of the Wind ! - 


54 


Jacques Cartier, - 


76 


IIev. Adrian Rouqitette, 1813 — 


55 


The Priest of Perth, 


- 77 


The Wild Lily and Passion Flower, 


55 


Return, . - - - 


77 


Rev F. W. Faber, 1814—1864, 


55 


Adelaide A.Procter, 182,5—1864, 


- 78 


Paradise, - - - - 


55 


A Doubting Heart, 


78 


The Cherwell Water-lily, 


57 


A Parting, 


- 78 


If Thou Couldst Be a Bird, 


56 


Our Dead, 


79 


Lady Geokgiana Fullekton, 1814 — 


58 


Ma,ximus, 


- 80 


A Fine Day In Summer, 


58 


D. G. Rossetti, 1828— - 


SO 


A Farewell, - - - - 


58 


My Sister's Sleep, 


- 80 


W. H. C. HoSMER, 1814-1867, - 


58 


Joseph Brenan, 1828—1857, - 


81 


The Old Song, - - - 


58 


Dirge for Devin Reilly, 


- 81 


Return of an Engagement Ring, 


59 


Come to Me, Dearest, 


83 


Yeh-sa-go-wah, - - - 


59 


John Savage, 1828— 


- 84 


Aubrey De Verb, 1814 — 


60 










Game Laws, - - _ 


84 


To my Lady Singing, 


60 


A Revery in Revelry, 


- 85 


Song, - - - - 


60 


Youth's Rhapsody, 


83 


Sonnet, . _ - . 


61 


Mind — a Labor Chant, 


- 86 


J. V. Huntington, 1813—1863, 


61 










C. G. Rossetti, 1830— - 


87 


Stella Matutina ora pro Xobis, 


61 










When I am Dead, 


87 


Charles Gavan Duffy, 1816 — 


61 










Husband and Wife, 


87 


The Voice of Labor, - 


61 










Weary in Well-doing, 


- 87 


Literary Leisure, - 


62 






B. I. DORWARD, 1817— 


63 


William Seton, 1836— 


88 


To the Wild Rose, 


63 


An Old Time Picture, 


- 88 


Elizabeth F. Elle t, 1818—1877, - 


63 


Daniel Connolly, 1836— 


88 


Susquehanna, 


64 


Trout Fishing, 


- 89 


Tlie Waves that on that Sparkling 




Three Sonnets : 




Sand, - . - - 


65 


Goldsmith, - 


89 


Mrs. M. S. Whitaker, 1820- 


65 


Mangan, - - - 


- 90 


Man, - - - - 


65 


Moore, . . . 


90 


Theodore O'Hara, 1820-1867, 


66 


The Leap for Life, 


- 90 


The Bivouac of the Dead, 


66 


Timothy E. Howard, 1837— - 


93 


Rev. D. X. McLeod, 1822—1862, - 


()7 


Tlie Indian Summer, 


- 93 


The Saga of Viking Torquil, 


67 


Fine Days in Marcli, 


93 


R. D. Williams, 1822—1862, 


69 


Rev. Patrick Cronin, 1837 — 


- 94 


The Dying Girl, - - , 


69 


Pero Marquette, - - - 


94 



NAMES OF POETS AND TITLES OF FOEMS. 



Rev. T. a. Butler, 1837— 

The Lost Home, - 
John K. Bensox, 1837 — 

Birthday Lines, - 
Rev. H. a., Brann, D. D., - 

The Progress of tlie Faith, 

The Stolen Flower-pots, 
VV.M. Louis Kelly, 1837 — 

Ash Wednesday, - - - 

Michael O'Connor, :837— 1SG2, 

Reveille, . - _ . 

The Beauty, 
Arthur J. Stace, 1838— - 

The Strawberry Festival , 
John F. Scanlan, 1839— - 

The Angels In Gray, 
Key. a. J. Ryan, 1840— - 

The Conquered Banner, - 

The Rosary of my Years, 

The Song of the Mystic, 
Rev. James Kent Stone i Father Fidelis, 
C. P.), 1840— 

Ida Tenebrse Sicut Lux, 
ItEV. M. B. Brown, 1840— 

The Harp, - . . . 

Annie A. Fitzgerald (Sistei- Anna Ra- 
phael), 1842— 

Santa Cruz in October, - 
John Boyle O'Reilly, 1844— 

Western Australia, 

Golu. - - - , . 

At Best, - - - . 

Forever, - . _ 

To-day, ... - - 

Star Gazing, - - . - 

WiLLi.oi Geoghegan, 1844— 

Passing Storms, 

A Morniag Dream, 
John B. Tabb, 1845— 

To Shelley, 

The Cloud, - - . . 

Makcella a. Fitzgerald, 1845 — 

Conner Lake, - - - - 

Charles H. A. Esling, 1845 — 

The Fountain at Fairmount. 
Brother Azarias, 1847 — 

Milton, . . . , 

John Locke, 1847 — 

Sonnet, . . - _ 

Evening by the Hudson, - 
Eleanor C. Donnelly, 1848— 

Thomas Moore, - . . 



AGE 


Eleanor C. Donnelly— Co;)<i;»<erf. 


Page 


98 


Missing. 


- 122 


98 


Henry O'Meara, 1849 — 


123 


99 


The Last Day of Pompeii, 


123 


9!) 


The Sister of Notre Daine, 


123 


lOU 


Elizabeth C. Hendry. 1SI9- 


121 


IIJO 


Leuore's Choice, - 


124 


101 


Vinton A. Goddard, 1850—1876, - 


• 124 


102 


The Cross of Calvary, 


125 


102 


Rev. W. T. Treacy, S J., 1850— 


• 125 


102 


To tlie Rev. A. J. Ryan, 


125 


102 


William D. Kelly, 1850— 


126 


103 


June, .... 


126 


104 


H. W. I. Garland, 1851— - 


- 126 


104 


As tlie Boats came up to Lynn 


126 


105 


P. S. Cas.siuy, 1851- 


127 


105 


Whore I Met my Love, 


■ 127 


lOG 


Seaside Song, 


127 


106 


Maurice F. Egan, 1852— ■ 


- 123 


107 


Dangerous Frankness, 


128 


107 


The Old Violin, 


- 129 




Theocritus, 


129 


108 


Like a Lilac, ■ 


129 


108 


Maurice de Guerin, 


130 


109 


Katherine E. Conway, 1852 — 


• 130 


109 


A Song in Maytime, 


130 




Agnes V. M. Phelan, 1852— 


■ 130 


109 


King Henry to his Queen, 


1.30 


109 


Thomas O'Hagan, 1853— • 


131 


111 


Another Year, 


131 


HI 


Reverie, 


- 132 


112 


J C. Keegan, 1854— 


132 


113 


" Beauty's Vision," - 


- 132 


113 
113 


Ann.4. T Sadlier, 1855 — 
"Fair," 


133 
- 133 


113 


A Parting, - . . 


131 


114 

114 
115 


Eliot Ryder, 1856 — 


- 134 


The Penitent at Prayer, - 
Dolce far Niente, 


134 
- 135 


116 
116 
116 
117 
117 


The Best of all Good Company, - 


135 


The Sorrow of Loving and Losing 
J. K. FORAN, 1857— 


- 135 
135 


Tlie Siege of Quebec, 


- 136 


U8 


Elizabeth Waylen, 1857 - - 


137 


118 


A Cynic, - . - 


- 137 


119 


A Young Poet, . - - 


13S 


1^0 


John Acton, 1858— 


- I3S 


120 


Midsummer, . - . 


138 


120 


E.J. McPlIELIM, 1861— 


- 138 


120 


Her Majesty, ... 


139 


121 


William J. Kelly, 1862— 


- 139 


121 


Childhood, 


139 



APPENDIX 



Mns. MaryE. Blake, . _ - 

To a Friend on hor MarrliiKt', 

Till To-morrow 
.John Boyle, - - - - 

Tlio Kobin ll<'dl)reast, 

San Salvador, ... 
Key, Thomas X. Burke, O. P 

The Iiisli Dominicans-, 
Mrs Mary C Btjrke, 

Little Slioes, 
Rev. Richard Caswall, 

On an Ancient Stone-quarry, 
Kdith W. Cook. . - - . 

A Mountain Friend, 

June, • • - - - 

J. C Clfrtin, . - 

In Memoriam, 
Mrs Madeleine V Daiilgren, 

The Argo Navis, 

Symbols, . - - - 

Mrs Anna Hanson Dorse v, 

Italian Mariners' Hymn to the Blessed 
Virgin - - - - 

P Henry Doyle, . _ _ 

Two Visions, - . - _ 

Mrs. S. B. Elder, 

Cleopatra Dying, - - - 

Susan L. Emery, - - - 

St. Francis de Sales, - 
James J. Gauan, 

Canadian Vesper Bells, 
Key. Benjamin' Dionysius Hill, (Father 
Edmund, C. P.) 

The Better Christmas, 
Mrs. E. B. Holloway, - 

Mary, - - - - 

Edward Hyde, - - - - 

The Types of God, - 
Robert D. Joyce, M. D., 

Ode to Poverty, 

"Autumn Leaves," from Deirdre, 
Mrs. Anne Chambers Ketchum. 

At Parting, 
Mrs. Mary E. Manni.x, 

A Beautiful Legend, 



A(iK 




Page 




Thomas .J. McGeoghegax. 


Lin 


14:i 


Kneeling at Knock, 


l,-)!l 


143 


James McNamara, - 


- 1611 


143 


Sancta Maria, 


16(1 


144 


Ivathlee.v T, McPhelim, . 


- 161 


144 


Two Women, 


161 


145 


Rev. Charles Meehan. 


161 


145 


Boyliood's Years, , 


161 


146 


Marion Miir, 


- 162 


146 


The Burial of Custer, 


162 


147 
147 
147 
147 
148 
150 
150 
150 


Rev, Michael, Mullen, D. D. 

The Song of Saturnus 
Joseph "VV. S. Norris, 


. 162 
162 
163 


The Answered Ave. 


163 


The Garnered Flower, 


- 163 


Invocation, 


164 


T. D. O'Callaghan, 


164 


150 


The River of Time, 


164 


151 


Frank O'Ryax, 


- 165 


151 


Nearing the City by Xiglil, 


165 




Very Rev. John A. Rochford, (). P . 


166 


151 


.Sursum Corda, 


166 


152 


Rev. Matthew Russell, S. J., 


- 167 


152 


Dio Amore, 


167 


152 


Veni Jesu, 


167 


152 


Michael Scanlan, 


168 


153 


Sister Stella, . 


- 168 


153 


Emily Seton, . - . . 


170 


153 


To a Sleeping Infant, 


170 


153 


Harriet M. Skidmore, . 


170 


154 
154 
155 


The Mist, 


. 170 


Sarah T. Smith, 


170 


5.30 a. m. Shipwiecked, 


- 170 


155 


In Summer Time, 


171 


156 


Charles Wakren Stohdard, 


171 


156 


A Gospel of Autumn, 


172 


157 


In a Convent, 


i;2 


157 


Meridian, 


ir2 


157 


Mrs, Margaret F. Sullivan, 


. 172 


158 


.V Revision, 


173 


158 


The Irish Famine, 


173 


158 


Lily C. Whitaker, . . 


U,'"> 


158 


The Lily, 


- 175 


xiv 







HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 

OF 

CATHOLIC POETS, 



THE 



HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 

13 — 1400. 

The time and place of tlie birth of this 
eminent poet ai'e uncertain. He lived in 
the fourteenth century, and died in 1400. 
He is designated as the father of English 
poetry. The obsolete phraseology of his 
writings, though presenting a barrier to 
general appreciation and popularity, will 
never deter those who truly love the 
"dainties that are bred in a book," from 
holding him in affection and reverence. 
His chief work, "The Canterbury Pilgrim- 
age," was written in the decline of life, 
when its author had passed his sixtieth 
year. For catholicity of spirit, love of na- 
ture, purity of thought, pathos, humor, 
subtle and minute discrimination of char- 
acter and power of expressing it, Chaucer 
has but one superior— Shakspere. 



TO MY EMPTY PURSE. 

To you, my purse, and to none other 

wight. 
Complain I, for ye be my lady dere; 
I am sorry now that ye be light, 
For, certes, ye now make me heavy 

chere ; 
Me were as lefe be laid upon a here. 
For which unto your mercy thus 1 crie, 
Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. 

Now vouchsafe this day or it be night, 
That I of you the blissful sowiie may 

liere. 
Or see your color like the sunne briglit, 
Tliat of yellowness had never pere; 
Ye are my life, ye be my hertes stere, 
Queen of comfort and good companie, 
Be heavy againe, or els mote I die, 



Now, purse, thou art to me my lives light, 
And saviour, as down in this world here. 
Out of this towne helpe me by your 

might, 
Sith that you will not be my treasure, 
For I am slave as nere as any frere, • 
But I pray unto your curtesie. 
Be heavy again, or els mote 1 die. 



PRAISE OF WOMEN. 

For, this ye know well, tho' I wouldin lie, 
In women is all truth and steadfastness; 
For, in good faith, I never of them sie 
But much worship, bounty, and gentle- 
ness. 
Right coming, fair, and full of meekness; 
Good, and glad, and lowly, I you ensure, 
Is this goodly and angelic creature. 

And if it hap a man be in disease. 
She doth her business and her full pain 
With all her might him to comfort and 

please. 
If fro his disease him she might restrain: 
In word ne deed, I wis, she woll not 

faine; 
With all her might she doth her business 
To bringen him out of his heaviness. 

Lo, here what gentleness these women 

have, 
If we could know it for our rudeness! 
How busy they be us to keep and save 
Both in hele and also in sickness, 
And alway right sorry for our distress! 
In every manure thus shew they ruth, 
That in them is all goodness and all truth. 



S 



17 



AN APRIL DAY. 

Ail day the low-hung clouds have dropped 
Their garnered fulness down; 



18 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



All day that soft gray mist hath wrapt 
Hill, valley, grove, and town. 

There has not been a sound today 

To break the calm of nature, 
Nor motion, I miaht almost say, 

Of life or living creature, 

Of waving bough or warbling bird, 

Or cattle faintly lowing; 
I could have half believed I heard 

The leaves and blossoms growing. 

I stood to hear— I love it well, — 
The rain's continuous sound- 
Small drops, but thick and fast they fell, 
Down straight into the ground. 

For leafy thickness is not yet 
Earth's naked breast to screen. 

Though every dripping branch is set 
With shoots of tender green. 

Sure, since I looked at early morn, 

Those honeysuckle buds 
Have swelled to double growth; that 
thorn 

Hath put forth larger studs. 

That lilac's cleaving cones have burst, 
The milk-white flowers revealing; 

Even now, upon my senses first 
Methinks their sweets are stealing. 

The very earth, the steamy air 

Is all with fragrance rife; 
And grace and beauty everywhere 

Are flushing into life. 

Down, down they come— those fruitful 
stores ! 

Those earth-rejoicing drops ! 
A momentary deluge pours, 

Then thins, decreases, stops. 

And ere the dimples on the stream 

Have circled out of sight, 
Lo ! from the west a parting gleam 

Breaks forth of amber light. 

But yet behold— abrupt and loud. 
Comes down the glittering rain; 

The farewell of a passing cloud. 
The fringes of her train. 



JOHN BARBOUR. 

1326— 1396. 

John Barbour is supposed to have been 
born about 1326. In 1357 he was arch- 
deacon of Aberdeen. He wrote two long 
poems, "The Brute," and "The Bruce," 
which are now but little known. He 
died in 1396. 



APOSTROPHE TO FREEDOM. 
(In modern spelling.) 

Ah ! Freedom is a noble thing. 
Freedom makes man to have likening; 
Freedom all solace to man gives; 
He lives at ease who freely lives. 
A noble heart may have no ease, 
Nor else naught that may him please, 
If freedom fails: for free likt'ing 
Is yearned o'er all other thing, 
Nor he that ayes has lived free, 
May not know well the property. 
The anger, nor the wretched doom, 
That is coupled to foul thraldom. 

ANDREW OF WYNTOUN. 

1400. 

Andrew of Wyntoun, prior of St. SerPs 
Monastery in Lochleven, about the year 
1120, completed, in eight-syllable meter, 
an Oryginale Cronykil of Scotland, which 
may be considered as a Scottish member 
of the rhymed chronicles. The genius of 
this author is inferior to thai oi Barbour, 
but his versification is easy, his language 
pure, and his style often animated. The 
dates of his birth and death are not 
known. 



INTERVIEW OF ST. SERF WITH 

SATHANAS. 

While St. Serf, intil a stead 
Lay after matins in his bed. 
The devil came, in foul intent 
For til found him with argument. 
And said, " St. Serf, by thy werk, 
I ken thou art a cunning clerk." 
St. Serf said: "Gif I sae be. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



19 



Foul wretch, what is tliat for tliee?" 
The devil said: "This question 
I ask in one collation- 
Say where was God, wit ye oucht. 
Before that heaven and erd was wi oucht?"' 
St. Serf said: "In himself steadless, 
His Godhead hampered never was." 
The devil then askit, "What cause He had 
To make tiie creatures that ho made?" 
To that St. Serf answered there, 
"Of creatures made he was maker. 
A maker micht he never be, 
But gif creatures made had he." 
The devil askit iiim, "Why God of nouclit 
His werkis all full gude had wroucht?" 
St. Serf answered, "Tliat Goddis will 
Was never to make his werkis ill. 
And as envious as he had been seen, 
Gif nought but he full good had been." 
St. Serf the devil askit than, 
"Where God made Adam the first man?" 
"In Ebron Adam formit was," 
St. Serf said. And til him Satlianas, 
"Where was he, eft that, for his vice, 
He was put out of Paradise?" 
St. Serf said: " Wiiere he was made." 
The devil askit, "How long he bade 
In Paradise, after his sin?" 
" Seven hours," Serf said, " bade he there- 
in." 
" When Eve was made ?" said Sathanas. 
"In Paradise," Serf said, "slie was."* * 

The devil askit, "Why that ye 
Men, are quite delivered free. 
Through Christ's passion precious boucht. 
And we devils sae are nauclit ? " 
St. Serf said, "For that ye 
Fell through your own iniquity; 
And through ourselves we never fell; 
But througli your fellow false counsel!." 
Then saw the devil that he could noucht. 
With all the wiles that he wroucht. 
Overcome St. Serf. He said than 
He keened him for a wise man. 
Forthy there he eave him quit, 
For he wan at him na profit. 
St. Serf said, " Thou wretch, gae 
Frae this stead, and 'noy nae mao 
Into this stead, I bid ye." 



Suddenly then passed he; 
Frae that stead he held his way, 
And never was seen there to this day. 

JAMES. I. OF SCOTLAND. 

'395—1437- 

James I. of Scotland was born in 1395, 
and was assassinated at Perth, in 1437. 
His principal poem, " The King's Quhair," 
contains poetry superior to any besides 
that of Chaucer, produced in England be- 
fore the reign of Elizabeth, as will be tes- 
tified to by the following verses : 

[James I., a Prisoner in Windsor, first 
sees Lady Jane Beavfort, who after- 
wards was his Queen.] 

Bewailing in my chamber, thus alone, 
Despaired of all joy and remedy, 
For-tired of my thought, and woe-begone, 
And to the window gan I walk in hyi 
To see the world and folk that went for- 

bye,2 
As, for the time, though I of mirthis food 
Might have no more, to look it did me 

good. 

Now was there made, fast by the towris 

wall, 
A garden fair; and in the corners set 
Ane arbour green, with wandis long and 

small 
Railed about, and so with trees set 
Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges 

knet. 
That lyf was none walking there forbye, 
That might within scarce any wight espy 

So thick the boughis and the leavis green 
Beshaded all the alleys that there were, 
And mids of every arbour might be seen 
The sharpe greene sweete juniper. 
Growing so fair with branches here and 

there, 
That as it seemed to a lyf without. 
The boughis spread tiie arbour all about. 

And on the smalle greene wtistiss sat, 
Tiie little sweete nightingale, and sung 

1 Haste. 2 Past. 8 Twig*. 



20 



THE HOUSHEOLD LIBRA.RY 



So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrat 
Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among. 
That all the gardens and the wallis rung 
Right of their song. ♦ * 

Cast 1 down mine eyes again, 



Where as I saw, wallving under the tower. 
Full secretly, new comen here to plain. 
The fairist or the freshest younge flower 
That ever 1 saw, methougiit, before tiiat 

hour. 
For which sudden abate, anon astart,> 
The blood of all my body to my heart. 

And though I stood abasit tho a lite,^ 
No wonder was, for why? my wittis all 
Were so overcome with pleasance and de- 
light. 
Only through letting of my eyen fall. 
That suddenly my heart became her tluall 
For ever of free will, — for of menace 
There was no token in her sweete face. 

And in my head I drew right hastily. 
And eftesoons I leant it out again. 
And saw her walk that very womanly. 
With no wight mo,' but only woman 

twain. 
Then gan I study in myself, and sayn.s 
"Ah, sweet ! are ye a worldly creature, 
Or heavenly thing in likeness of nature ? 

"Or are ye god Cupidis own princess, 

And comin ai-e to loose me out of band? 

Or are ye very Nature the goddess, 

That have depainted with your heavenly 
hand, 

This garden full of flowers as they stand? 

What shall I think, alas ! what rever- 
ence 

Shall I mister* unto your excellence? 

If ye a goddess be, and that ye like 
To do me pain, I may it not astarti^ 
If ye be wardly wight, that doth me 

sike,* 
Why list' God make you so, my dearest 

heart, 
To do a seelys prisoner this smart, 

1 Went and came. 2 Confounded for a 

little while. 3 Say. 4 Minister. 5 Fly. 
6 Makes me sigh. 7 Pleased. 8 Wretched. 



That loves you all, and wot of nought bu 

wo? 
And therefore mercy, sweet I sin' it is 

so." * * 

Of her array the form if I shall write, 
Towards her golden hair and rich attire. 
In fretwise couchiti with pearlis while 
And great balas^ learning^ as the fire. 
With mony ane emeraut and fair sap- 
phire; 
And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue. 
Of pluinis parted red, and white, and 
blue. 

Full of quaking spangis bright as gold, 
Forged of shape like to the amorets. 
So new, so fresh, so pleasant to behold. 
The plumis eke like to the flower jonets,'* 
And other of shape, like to the flower 

jonets; 
And above all this, there was, well I wot, 
Beauty enough to make a world to doat. 

About her neek, white as the fire amail,* 
A goodly chain of small orfevory,* 
Whereby there hung a ruby, without fail. 
Like to ane heart shapen verily, 
That as a spark of low,' so wantonly 
Seemed burning upon her white throat. 
Now if there was good party,'^ God it wot. 

And for to walk that fresh May's morrow, 
Ane hook she had upon her tissue white, 
That goodlier had not been seen to- 

forow,9 
As I suppose; and girt she was alite.'o 
Thus halflings loose for haste, to such de- 
light 
It was to see her youth in goodlihede. 
That for rudeness to speak thereof I dread. 

In her was youth, beauty, with humble 

aport. 
Bounty, richess, and womanly feature, 
God belter wot than my pen can report: 

1 Inlaid like fret work. 2 A kind of 

precious stone. 3 Glittering. 4 A kind of 
lily. It is conjectured that the royal poet may 
here covertly allude to the name of his mis- 
tress, which, in the diminutive, was Janet or 
Jonet. — Thomson's Ectilion of King Qulidir 
(Ayr, 1824). 5 Enamel. 6 Gold work. 

7 Flame. 8 Match. 9 Before. 10 Slightly. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



21 



Wisdom, largess, estate, and cuiiningi 

sure, 
In every point so guided her measure, 

in word, in deed. In shape, in counten- 
ance, 
That nature might no more her child 

avance ! 

* * * 

And when she walked had a little thraw 
Under the sweete greene boughis bent, 
Her fair fresh face, as white as any snaw, 
She turned has, and furtli her wayis went; 
But tho began mine aches and torment. 
To see her part and follow I na might; 
Methought the day was turned into night. 

JULIANA BERNERS. 

1400 . 

About 1481, Juliana Berners, a sistpr of 
Lord Berners, and Prioress of the Nun- 
nery of Sopewell, composed what is re- 
garded as the great literary curiosity of 
the lime, a work, coniaining treatises on 
hawking, hunting, and heraldry, which, 
in 1486, was printed. A second edition 
has a treatise on angling, and a sort of. 
lyrical epilogue to the treatise on hunting, 
which last is written in rhyme. We give 
the following: 

FROM THE EPILOGUE. 

A faithful friend I fain would find. 

To find him there he might be found, 
But now is this world wext so unkind. 

That friendship is fall to the ground. 

Now a friend I have found 
That I will neither ban ne^ curse; 

But all friends in field or town, 
Ever gramercys my own purse. 

li fell by me, upon a time. 

As it hath doo* by many rao,5 
My horse, my neat, my sheep, my swine. 

And ail my goods they fell me fro; 

I went to my friends and told them so. 
And home again they bade me truss. 

I said again, when I was wo,'' 
Ever gramercy mine own purse. 



ROBERT HENRYSOUN. 

14 1508. 

Of Robert Henrysoun there are no per- 
sonal memorials (although he was one of 
the most conspicuous of the Scottish poets 
of his day), save that he was a school-mas- 
ter at Dumfermline, is conjectured to have 
been a Benedictine monk, and died about 
1508. He wrote a large number of poem?. 



1 Knowledge, 
to. 4 Dune. 



2 Xor. 
6 More. 



3 Great thanks 
6. Sorrowful. 



THE GARMENT OF GOOD LADIES. 

Would my good lady love me best, 

And work after my will, 
I should a garment goodliest 

Gar make her body till.' 

Of high honoLir should be her hood, 

Upon her head to wear, 
Garnish'd with governance, so good 

Na deeming should her deir.* 

Her sark^ should be her body next. 

Of chastity so white: 
With shame and dread together mixt, 

The same should be perfyte.* 

Her kirtle should be of clean Constance, 

Lacit with lesum^ love; 
The mailies'' of continuance, 

For never to remove. 

Her gown should be of goodlinesg. 

Well ribbon'd with renown; 
ParfiU'd'' with pleasure in ilk!* place, 

Furrit with fine fashioun. 

Her belt should be of benignity. 

About her middle meet; 
Her mantle of humility. 

To thole^ both wind and weit.'» 

Her hat should be of fair having. 

And her tippet of truth; 
Her patelet of good pausing," 

Her hals-ribbon of ruth.i* 

Her sleeves should be of esperance, 
To keep her fra despair: 

1 Cause to be made to her shape. 2 'No 
opinion should injure her. 3 Shift. 4 Per- 
fect. 5 Lawful. 6 Eyelet holes for lacing 
her kirtle. 7 ParflU (French), fringed, or 

bordered. 8 Each. 9 Endure. 10 Wet. 
11 Thinking. 12 Her ucck-ribbon of pity. 



23 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBKARY 



Her glovis of good governance, 
To hide her fingers fair. 

Her shoen should be of sickerness, 

In sign that she not slide; 
Her hose of honesty, I guess, 

I should for her provide. 

Would she put on this garment gay, 

I durst swear by my seill,i 
That she wore never green nor gray 

That set2 her half so weel. 

WILLIAM DUNBAR. 

1465—1520. 
William Dunbar flourished at the court 
of James IV., at the end of the fifteenth 
and beginning of the sixteenth centuries. 
He was born about the year 1465, and is 
supposed to have died about 1520. He 
was educated at the University of St. 
Andrews, and took the degree of Master 
of Arts. He afterwards became a Fran- 
ciscan friar, in which capacity he travelled 
for some years, not only in Scotland, but 
also in England and France. After some 
years he left tlie priesthood. His writings 
are voluminous, yet with scarcely any ex- 
ception remained in the obscurity of manu- 
script until the beginning of the last cen- 
tury. But his fame has been gradually 
rising since then, and fifty years ago his 
works were issued in a complete edition. 
Sir Walter Scott pronounces Dunbar "a 
poet equal to any that Scotland has ever 
produced." 



OF DISCRETION IN GIVING. 
To speak of gifts and almos deeds: 
Some gives for merit, and some for meeds ; 

Some, wardly honour to uphie; 
Some gives to them that nothing needs; 

In Giving sould Discretion be. 

Some gives for pride and glory vain; 
Some gives with grudging and with pain : 

Some gives on prattick for supplie; 
Some gives for twice as gude again: 

In Giving sould Discretion be. 



Some gives for thank, and some for threat; 
Some gives money, and some gives meat; 

Some givis wordis fair and slie; 
And gifts fra some may na man treit: 

In Giving sould Discretion be. 

Some is for gift sae lang required. 
While that the craver be so tired. 

That ere the gift delivered be. 
The thank is frustrate and expired: 

In Giving sould Discretion be. 

Some gives so little full wretchedly. 
That all his gifts are not set by,' 

And for a hood-pick halden is he. 
That all the warld cries on him, Fye 1 

In Giving sould Discretion be. 

Some in his giving is so large. 
That all o'er-laden is his barge; 

Then vice and prodigalitie. 
There of his honour does discharge: 

In Giving sould Discretion be. 

Some to the rich gives his gear, 
That might his giftis weel forbear; 

And, though the poor for fault* sould 
die. 
His cry not entei's in his ear: 

In Giving sould Discretion be. 

Some gives to strangers with faces new, 
That jesterday fra Flanders flew;^ 

And to auld seiTants list not see. 
Were they never of sae great virtue: 

In Giving sould Discretion be. 

Some gives to them can ask and pleinyie,* 
Some gives to them can flatter and feignie: 

Some gives to men of honestie, 
And halds all janglers at disdenyie: 

In Giving sould Discretion be. 

Some gettis gifts and rich arrays. 
To swear all that his master says, 

Though all the contrair weel knaws 
he; 
Are mony sic now in thir days: 

In Giving sould Discretion be. 

1 Appreciated. 2 Starvation. 3 A large 
proportion of the strangers who visited Scot- 
land at this early period were probably from 
Flanders. 4 Complain. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



33 



Some gives to gude men for their thews; 
Some gives to trumpours and to shrews; 

Some gives to knaw his autiioritie. 
But in their oEBce gude fund in few is; 

la Giving sould Discretion be^ 

Some givis parochines full wide, 
Kirlis of St. Bernard and St. Bride, 

The people to teach and to o'ersee, 
Though he nae wit has them to guide : 

In Giving sould Discretion be. 



OF DISCRETION IN TAKING, 
After Giving I speak of Taking, 
But little of ony gude forsaking; 

Some takes o'er little authoritie, 
And some o'er mickle, and that is glaik- 
ing:i 

In Taking sould Discretion be. 

The clerks takes benefices with brawls, 
Some of St. Peter and some of St. Paul's; 

Tak he the rents, no care has he, 
Suppose the dev.l tak all their sauls: 

In taking sould Discretion be. 

Barons taks fra the tenants puir 
All fruit tiiat growis on the fur, 

In mails and gersotus' raisit o'er him. 
And gars them beg fra door to door : 

In taking sould Discretion be. 

Some merchants taks unleesome^ wine, 
Whilk maks their packs oft time full thin 

By their succession, as ye may see, 
That ill-won gear 'riches not the kin: 

In Taking sould Discretion be. 

Some talcs other mennis tacks,'* 
And on tlie puir oppression maks, 

And never remembers that he maun 
die, 
Till that the gallows gars him rax:* 

la Taking sould Discretion be. 

Some taks by sea, and some by land. 
And never fra taking can hold their hand, 

Till he be tyit up to ane tree; 
And syne they gar him understand, 

In Taking sould discretion be. 

1 Foolish. 2 Rents and fines of entry. 
8 Unlawful. 4 Leases. 5 Till the gallows 
stretches him. 



Some wald tak all his neighbor's gear; 
Had he of man as little fear 

As he has dread that God hira see; 
To tak then sould he never forbear: 

In Taking sould Discretiou be. 

Some wald tak all this warld on breid;' 
And yet not satisfied of their need. 

Through heart unsatiable and greedie: 
Some would tak little, and cannot speed : 

la Taking sould Discretion be. 

Great men for taking and oppression. 
Are set full famous at the Session,* 

And puir takers are hangit hie, 
Shawit forever and their succession: 

In Taking sould Discretion be. 

GAVIN DOUGLAS. 

1474—1522- 
Gavin Douglas, born about the year 
1474, was educated for the church, and 
rose through a variety of inferior offices 
to be Bishop of Dunkeld. After occupy- 
ing a prominent place in tlie history of 
his country, he died of the plague in Loa- 
don, in the year 1522. His principal orig- 
inal composiiion is a long poem called 
" The Palace of Honor. 



FROM A DESCRIPTION OF MAY.* 
And lusty Flora did her bloomes sprede 
Under the feet of Phebus sulyeart^ steed: 
The swardit'* soil, embrode* with sel- 

couths hues 
Wood and fordst obumbrate' with the 

bews,8 
Whais^ blissful branches, portrayed 00 the 

ground 
With shadows sheen, show rochisiorubi- 

cund, 
Towers, turrets, kirnals," and pinnacles 

high 

*In Ellis's Specimens. The spelling Is per- 
haps somewhat modernized. 

1 In its whole breadth. 2 Get high places 
In the supreme court of law. 3 Sultry. 4 
Turfed. 5 Embroidered. 6 Uncommon. 
7 Shade. 8 Boughs. 9 Whose. 10 Kocks. 
11 Battlements. 



24 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



Of kirkis,' castles, and ilk fair city: 
Stood paintit every fane, phiall,^ and 

stage, 
Upon the plain ground hy their own um- 
brage. 

The daisy did un-braid her crownel small, 
And every flower unlappit^ in the dale. 
Sere downis small on dentilion* sprang, 
The young, green, bloomit strawberry 

leaves amang; 
Gimps Gilliflowtjrs their own leaves un- 

schet,* 
Fresh primrose and pourpour violet. 

SIR THOMAS MORE. 

1480— iS3S. 

Sir Thomas More, the celebrated chan- 
cellor of Henry VIIL, was born in 1480, 
and, in consequence of his disapproval 
of the divorce of his monarch from his 
lawful wife, in 1535 was executed. He 
was the author of a few short poems of 
considerable merit. 



FORTUNE DESCRIBED. 
Then, as a bait, she bringeth forth her 
ware. 
Silver and gold, rich pearl and precious 
stone. 
On which the raasfed people gaze and stare. 
And gape therefor, as dogs do for the 
bone. 
Fast by her side doth weary labor stand. 

Pale fear, also, and sorrow all bewept; 
Disdain and hatred on that other hand, 
Eke restless watch, from sleep with tra- 
vail kept, 
Befoi'e her standeth danger and envy. 
Flattery, deceit, mischief, and tyrann.v. 

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 

1542—1588. 

This unfortunate queen was born in 1542, 

and on pretences which probably few 

writers at this time will justify, was exe- 

1 Churches. 2 Cupola. S Unfolded. 

4 Dandelion. S Pretty. 6 TJnshut. 



cuted in 1588. She did not understand 
Englisii, but composed verses in Latin and 
French with great facility. The follow- 
ing is a translation: 

SONNET. 

Alas ! what am I, and in what estate? 

A wretched corse, bereaved of its heart; 
An empty shadow, lost, unfortunate. 
To die is now in life my only part. 
Foes to my greatness, let your envy rest ! 
In me no taste for grandeur now is 
found, 
Consum'd by grief, by heavy ills oppress'd. 
Your wishes and desires will soon be 
crown'd. 
And you, my friends, who still have held 
me dear, 
Bethink you that when health and heart 

are fled. 
And every hope of future good is dead, 
'Tis time to wish our sorrows ended here; 
And that this punishment on earth is 

given, 
That my pure soul may rise to endless 
bliss in heaven. 



ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 

1560— 1595. 

Robert Southwell occupies a high place 
among the poetical lights of the reign of 
Elizabeth. He was born in 1560 at St. 
Faith's, Norfolk, of Catholic parents, was 
educated at Douay, in Flanders, and at 
Rome, where, at sixteen years of age, he 
entered the Society of Jesus. In 1584 he 
returned to. his native country as a mis- 
sionary, notwithstanding a law which 
threatened with death all members of his 
profession found in England. He con- 
tinued his work for eight years, when, in 
1593, he was apprehended and committed 
to a dungeon in the tower of London. 
After three years he was brousht to trial, 
and found guilty, upon his own confes- 
sion of being a Catholic priest, and was 
condemned to death, and executed at 
Tyborn. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



25 



LOVE'S SERVILE LOT. 
She shroutleth vice in virtue's veil, 

Pretending good in ill; 
She offereth joy, but bringeth grief; 

A l<iss— where slie doth kill, 

A honey shower rains from her lips, 
Sweet lights shine in her face; 

She hath the blush of virgin mind. 
The mind of viper's race. 

She malves thee seek, yet fear to find; 

To find, but nouglit enjoy; 
In many frowns, some passing smiles 

She yields to more annoy. 

She letteth fall some luring baits. 

For fools to gather up; 
Now sweet, now sour, for every taste 

She tempereth her cup. 

Her watery eyes have burning force, 
Her floods and flames conspire; 

Tears kindle sparks— sobs fuel are. 
And sighs but fan the fire. 

May never was the month of love, 

For May is full of flowers; 
But rather April, wet by kind. 

For love is full of showers. 

With soothing words enthralled souls 
She chains in servile bands; 

Her eye, in silence, hath a speech 
Which eye best understands. 

Her little sweet hath many sours; 

Short hap immortal harms; 
Her loving looks are murdering darts. 

Her songs, bewitching charms. 

Like Winter rose and Summer ice. 

Her joys are still untimely; 
Before lier hope, behind remorse, 

Fair first — in fine unkindly. 

Plough not the seas, sow not the sands, 
Leave off your idle pain; 

Seek other mistress for your minds- 
Love's service is in vain. 



The sorriest wight may find relief from 

pain. 
The dryest soil sucks in some moistening 

shower. 
Time goes by turns, and chances change 

by course. 
From foul to fair, from better hap tr 

worse. 

The sea of fortune does not ever flow; 
She draws her favors to the lowest ebb. 
Her tides have equal times to come and go; 
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest 

web. 
No joy so great but all its glow doth spend. 
No hap so hard but runneth to an end. 

Not always full of leaf, nor even spring; 
Not endless night, nor yet eternal day. 
Tlie saddest birds a season find to sing; 
The roughest storm a calm may soon allay^ 
Tnus, witla succeeding terms God temper- 
eth all; 
Tiiat man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. 

A chance may win what by mischance 

was lost. 
The net that holds no great talces little fisii. 
In some things all, in all things none are 

crossed; 
Few all things need, and none have all 

they wish. 
Unmingled joys here to no man befall; 
Who least hath some; who most hath 

never all. 



TIME GOES BY TURNS. 
The lopped tree in time will grow again. 
Most naked plants renew both fru' and 
flower. 



LOSS IN DELAYS. 

Shun delays, they breed remorse; 
Take thy time, while time is lent thee; 

Creeping snails have weakest force,— 
Fiy their fault, lest thou repent thee; 

Good is best, when soonest wrougiit, 

Ling'ring labors come to naught. 

Hoist up sail while gale doth last, 
Tide and wind stay no man's pleasure; 

Seek not time, when time is past. 
Sober speed is wisdom's leisure: 

After-wits are dearly bought. 

Let the fore-wit guide thy thouglit 

Time wears all his locks before. 
Take, then, hold upon his forehead: 



lOBIaillliaiBiaMIMHa* 



26 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



When lie flies, he turns no more; 
And behind his scalp is naked: 
Works adjourn'd have many stays, 
Long demurs bring new delays. 

Seek thy salve while sore is green, 
Festei'd wounds ask deeper lancing; 

After-cures are seldom seen. 
Often sought, scarce ever chancing: 

In the rising stifle ill, 

Lest it grow against thy will. 

Drops do pierce the stubborn flint, 
Not by force, but often falling; 

Custom kills with feeble dint, 
More by use than strength prevailing; 

Single sands have little weight, 

Many make a drowning freight. 

Tender twigs are bent with ease, 
Aged trees do break with bending; 

Young desires make little prease. 
Growth doth make them past amending: 

Happy man, that scon doth knock 

Babel's babes against the rock. 

THOMAS LODGE. 

1S56— 1625. 
Thomas Lodge was of a Lincolnshire 
family, and was born about 1556. In 1573 
he was entered at Oxford, where he took 
one degree, and seems to have been dis- 
tinguished as a scliolar, a wit, and a poet. 
In 1584 he was an actor. He also wrote 
for the stage, and appears to have studied 
law. He finally became a physician. He 
. wrote many plays and poems. His con- 
temporary poe > chaiacterized him as a 
man of yf^i't genius. 



ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL. 
I. 
Love in my bosom like a bee 

Doth suck his sweet; 
Now with his wings he plays with mo. 

Now with his feet. 
Within mine eyes lie makes his nest. 
His bed amidst my tender breast; 
My kisses are his daily feast, 
And yet he robs me of my rest. 

Ah, wanton, will ye. 



IL 

And if I sleep, then percheth he 

With pretty flight. 
And makes his pillow of my knee. 

The live-long night. 
Strike I ray lute, he tunes the string; 
He music plays if 1 do sing; 
He lends me every lovely thing: 
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting. 

Whist, wanton, still ye I 

IIL 

Else I with roses every day 

Will whip you hence; 
And bind you when you long to play, 

For your offence. 
I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in, 
I'll make you fast it for your sin, 
I'll count your power not worth a pin; 
Alas, what hereby shall I win, 

If he gainsay me? 

IV. 

What if I beat the wanton boy 

With many a rod ? 
He will repay me with annoy, 

Because a gou. 
Then sit thou safi ij on my knee. 
And let thy bower my bosom be: 
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee. 
O Cupid ! so thou pity me. 

Spare not, but play thee ! 

HENRY CONSTABLE. 

1566—. 
Henry Constable was born about 1566. 
He took his degree at Cambridge in 1579. 
He was noted as a sonnetteer. He is sup- 
posed to have been the Henry Constable 
who, for his zeal in the Catholic cause, 
was long obliged to live in a state of ban- 
ishment, and, having privately returned 
to London, was imprisoned in the tower. 
The year of bis death is not known. 



LOVE'S TROUBLES. 
To tread a maze that never shall have end; 
To burn in sighs and starve in daily 
tears; 
To climb a bill, and neTer to descend, 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 27 


Giants to kill, and quake at cliildish 


DEATH. 


fears; 


Why art thou slow, thou rest o\ tiouble. 


To pine for food, and watch tlie Hespe- 


Death, 


rian tree; 


To stop a wretch's breath. 


To thirst for drink, and nectar still to 


That calls on thee, and offers her sad 


draw; 


heart 


To live accurst, whom men hold blest to be ; 


A prey unto thy dart? 


And weep those wrongs which never 


I am not young, nor fair; be, therefore. 


creature saw; 


bold: 


It this be love, and love in these be found- 


Sorrow hath made me old. 


ed, 


Deformed, and wrinkled; all that I can 


My heart is love, for these are in it 


crave 


grounded. 


Is quiet in ray grave. 




Such as live happy, hold long life a jewel: 


DAMELUS' SONG TO HIS DIAPHENIA. 
I. 

Diaphenia, like the daffadowndilly, 
White as the sun, fair as the lily. 


But to me thou art cruel. 
It thou end not my tedious misery, 


And I soon cease to be. 
Strike, and strike home, then; pity unto 

me, 
In one short hour's delay, is tyranny. 


Heigh ho, how I do love thee I 
I do love thee as my lambs 


Are beloved of their dams; 





How blest were I it thou wouldst 


JAIklES SHIRLEl 


prove me ! 


1594 — 1666. 


II. 


James Shirley, one of the great English 


Diaphenia, like the spreading roses, 


dramatic poets, was born in London in 


That in thy sweets all sweets encloses, 


1594. He was a convert to the Catholic 


Fair sweet, how I do love thee I 


faith. His works consist of thirty- nine 


I do love thee as each flower 


plays, and a volume of poems. In 1666 


Loves ihe sun's life-giving power; 


the great fire of London drove him, with 


For dead, thy breath to life might 


i)is family, from his home, and soon after- 


move me. 


wards both he and his wife died on th« 


HI. 


same day. 


Diaphenia, like to all things blessed. 




When all thy praises are expressed, 


THE PASSING-BELL. 


Dear joy, how I do love thee ! 
As the birds do love ihe Spring, 
Or the bees their careful king; 

Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me! 


Hark ! how chimes the passing-bell, 
There's no music to a knell: 
All the other sounds we hear 
Flatter, and but cheat our ear. 


o 


This doth put us still in mind 


PHILIP MASSINGER. 


That our flesh must be resigned. 
And a general silence made. 


15S4 — 1640. 


The world be mufHed in a shade 


Philip Massinger was born in Salisbury, 


He that on his pillow lies, 


England, in 1584. He wrote numerous 


Tear-embalmed before he dies, 


plays, many of which were lost by being 


Carries, like a sheep, his life 


burned by an ignorant hireling. Many 


To meet the sacrificer's knife. 


of Massinger's occasional verses are very 


And for Eternity is prest, 


beautiful. He died in 1640. 


Sad bell-wether to the rest. 



28 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. 
I. 
The glories of our blood and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things; 
There is no armour against Fate; 
Death lays his ley hand on kings: 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

11. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield; 
They tame but one another stiU: 
Early or late 
They stoop to Fate, 
And must give up their murmuring 

breath, 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

III. 

The garlands wither on your brow. 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds; 
Upon Death's purple altar now 
See, where the victor victim bleeds: 
Your heads must come 
To the cold tomb; 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. 

SIR KENELME DIGBY. 

1603 — 1665. 
Sir Kenelme Digby. one of the most 
noted and remarkable men of his time, 
was born at Gothurst, in 1603. He was 
educated at Oxford, and having completed 
his studies, travelled in France, Spain and 
Italy. He was a convert to the Catholic 
faith, and his conversion seems to have 
been first publicly professed in 1636. He 
wrote many works in prose and verse. 
His death occurred June 11, 1665. Of a 
poem ascribed to him, Ellis cites the fol- 
lowing passage: 

LIFE. 
Fame, honor, beauty, state, trains, blood, 

and birth. 
Are but the fading blossoms of the earth. 



I would be great but that the sun doth 

still 

Level his rays against the highest hill; 

I would be high, but see the proudest oak 

More subject to the rending thunder- 
stroke; 

I would be wise, but that the fox I see 

Suspected guilty, while the ass goes free; 

I would be fair, but see that champion 
proud, 

The brightest sun, oft setting in a cloud. 

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT. 

160S— 1668. 
Sir William Davenant was born in 16U5, 
and was the son of a vintner at Oxford. 
About the year 1628 he began to write for 
the stage, and in 1638, on the death of 
Ben Jonson, he was appointed poet lau- 
reate. He died April 7, 1668. Davenant 
was a convert to Catholicity. 



THE SOLDIER GOING TO THE FIELD. 
Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl. 

To purify the air: 
Thy tears to thread instead of pearl. 

On bracelets of thy hair. 

The trumpet makes the echo hoarse. 

And wakes the louder drum; 
Expense of grief gains no remorse. 

When sorrow should be dumb. 
For I umst go where lazy Peace 

Will hide her drowsy head. 
And, for the sport of kings, increase 

The number of the dead ! 
But first I'll chide thy cruel theft. 

Can I in war delight. 
Who being of my lieart bereft 

Can have no heart to fight? 

Thou know'st the sacred laws of old 

Ordained a thief should pay, 
To quit him of his theft, seven-fold 

What he had stolen away. 

Thy payment shall but double be: 

then with speed resign 
My own seduced heart to me, 

Accompanied with thine. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



29 



SONG. 
Tlie lark now leaves his watery nest, 

And climbing shakes his dewy wings; 
Ho takes this window for the East, 

And to implore your light he sings. 
Awake, awake, the morn will never rise 
Till she can dress her heauty at your 
eyes. 

The merchant bows unto the seaman's 

star, 
The plowman from the sun his season 

takes ; 
But still the lover wonders what they are, 
Who look for day before his mistress 

wakes. 
Awake, awake, break through your veils 

of lawn. 
Then draw your curtains, and begin the 

dawn. 

WILLIAM HABINGTON. 

1605 — 1654. 
William Habington was born in 1605, 
of a Catholic family, in Worcestershire, 
England. He was educated at Paris and 
St. Omer's. By his literary attainments 
he won the favor of Charles I., at whose 
request he wrote a history of Edward IV. 
He also wrote "Observations upon His- 
tory," and "The Queen of Arragon," a 
play which was acted at Court. He died 
in 1654. His poetry is remarkable for its 
delicacy and elegance. 



UPON CASTARA'S DEPARTURE. 

Vows are vain. No suppliant breatli 
Stays the speed of swift-heeled Death. 
Life witli her is gone, and I 
Learn but a new way to die. 
S.^e, the flowers condole, and all 
Wither in my funeral. 
The bright lily, as if day 
Parted with her, fades away. 

Violets hang their heads and loso 
All their beauty. That the rose 
A sad part in sorrow bears, 
Witness all those dewy tears, 



Which as pearl, or diamond like. 
Swell upon her blushing cheek. 
All things mourn. But 0, behold 
How the withered marigold 
Closeth up now she is gone. 
Judging her the setting sun. 



TO ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CAS- 
TARA. 

1. 

Ye, blushing virgins, happy are 
In the chaste nunnery of her breasts; 
For he'd profane so chaste a fair. 
Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests. 

IL 

Transplanted thus how briglit ye grow. 
How rich a perfume do ye yield ! 
In some close garden, cowslips so 
Are sweeter than i' the open field. 

IIL 

In those white cloisters live secure 
From the rude blasts of wanton breath; 
E ich hour more innocent and pure. 
Till you shall wither into death. 

IV. 

Then that which living gave you room. 
Your glorious sepulchre shall be: 
There wants no marble for a tomb. 
Whose heart hath marble been to me. 



THE MOMENT LAST PAST. 

O whither dost thou fiye? Can not my 

vow 
Intreat thee tarry? Thou wert here but 

now, 
And thou art gone ; like ships wliich 

plough the sea. 
And leave no print for man to tracke the 

way. 
unseene wealth ! who thee did husband, 

can 
Out- vie the jewels of the ocean. 
The mines of th' earth ! One sigh well- 
spent in thee 
Had beene a purchase for eternity ! 
We will not loose thee then. Castara, 

where 
Shall we tinde out his hidden sepulcher; 



30 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



And wee'le revive him. Not tlie cruell 

stealth 
Of fate sliall rob us of so great a wealth. 
Undone in thrift ! while we besought 

him stay, 
Ten of his fellow-moments fled away. 



A LESSON FOR BELLES. 

Faire Madame ! You 
May see what's man in jond' bright rose, 
Though it the wealth of Nature owes, 

It is opprest, and bends with dew. 

Which shewes, though fate 
May promise still to warme our lippes, 
And keepe our eyes from an ecclips; 

It will our pride with teares abate. 

Poor silly flowre ! 
Though in thy beauty thou presume, 
And breatli which doth the Spring per- 
fume; 

Thou may'st be cropt, this very houre. 

And though it may 
Then thy good fortune be, to rest 
0' th' pillow of some Ladle's brest; 

Thou'lt wither, and be throwne away. 

For 'tis thy doome 
However, that there shall appeare 
No memory that ihou grew'st heere, 

Ere the tempestuous winter come. 



SIR ASTON COKAIN. 

1608— 1683. 
Sir Aston Cokain was born at Ashbourn, 
in 1608. He studied at both Oxford and 
Cambridge. He led a retired life during 
the civil wars, and suffered much for his 
religion. He died in 1683. He published 
a volume of verse called "Poems of Divers 
Sorts." 



TO PLAU'lIA. 
I can behold thy golden hair. 
And for the owner nothing care; 
Thy starry eyes can look upon, 
And be mine own when I have done; 
Can view the garden of thy cheeks, 



And slight the roses there as leeks; 
My liberty thou canst not wrong 
With all the magic of thy tongue; 
For thou art false, and wilt be so, 
I else no other fair would woo. 
Away ! therefore; tempt me no more ! 
I'll not be won with all thy store. 



RICHARD CRASHAW. 

1616 — 1650. 
Richard Crashaw is supposed to have 
been born in 1616. He graduated at Cam- 
bridge in 1633. He wrote many poems of 
considerable merit. Owing to religious 
troubles he left England and went to 
Italy, where he became secretary to one 
of the C.irdinals, and canon of the church 
of Lore! to. In this situation he died in 
1650. He wrote many Latin poems, in 
one of which occurs the beautiful line: 
" Lymplim pudica Denm vldit et erubuit." 
(The conscious water saw its God and 
blushed.) These Latin poems are greatly 
admired. 



OUT OF THE ITALIAN. 
I. 
To tliy lover, 
Dear, discover 
That sweet blush of thine that shameth 
(When those roses 
It discloses) 
All the flowers that Nature nameth. 

II. 

In free air 

Flow thy hair 
That no more Summer's best dresses 

Be beholden 

For their golden 
Locks to Phoebus' flaming tresses. 

III. 

O deliver 

Love his quiver; 
From thy eyes he shoots his arrows, 

Where Apollo 

Can not follow. 
Feathered with his mother's sparrows. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



81 



IV. 

envy not 

(That we die not) 
Those dear lips whose door encloses 

All the Graces 

In their places, 
Brother pearls, and sister roses ! 
V. 

From these treasures 

OC ripe pleasures 
One bright smile to clear the weather: 

Earth and heaven, 

Thus made even, 
Both will be good friends together. 
VI. 

The air does woo thee, 

Winds cUng to thee; 
Might a word once fly from out thee, 

S orm and thunder 

Would sit under, 
And keep silence round about thee. 
VII. 

But if Nature's 

Common creatures 
So dear glories dare not borrow; 

Yet thy beauty 

Owes a duty 
To my loving, lingering sorrow, 

VIII 

When to end me 

Death shall send me 
All his terrors to affright me; 

Thine eyes, graces 

Gild their faces. 
And those terrors shall delight me. 
IX. 

When my dying 

Lite is flying, 
Those sweet airs that often slew me 

Shall revive me, 

Or reprieve me, 
A.nd to many deaths renew me. 

SIR EDWAKD SHERBURNE. 

1618 — 1702. 
Sir Edward Sherburne was born in Lon- 
don in 1618. His Catholicity subjected 
him to many persecutions. At the Resto- 



ration he was knighted. He died in 1702. 
He wrote several translations and poems. 



LOVE ONCE, LOVE EVER. 
Shall I, hopeless, then pursue 

A fair shadow that still flies me? 
Shall I still adore, and woo 

A proud heart that does despise me? 
I a constant love may so. 
But, alas ! a fruitless show. 
Shall I by the erring light 

Of two Grosser stars still sail? 
That do shine, but siiine in spite. 

Not to guide, but make me fail? 
I a wandering course may steer, 
But the harbour ne'er come near. 
Whilst these thoughts my soul possess, 

Reason passion would o'ersway. 
Bidding me my flames suppress, 

Or divert some other way: 
But what reason would pursue, 
That my heart runs counter to. 
So a pilot, bent to make 

Search for some unfound-out land, 
Does with him the magnet take. 

Sailing to the unknown strand: 
But that, steer which way he will, 
To the loved North points still. 

JOHN DRYDEN. 

1631 — 1700. 
John Dryden is supposed to have been 
born at Aldwinckle, in 16J1. In 1670 he 
was made poet laureate, and Royal His- 
toriographer, and in 1685 publicly ac- 
knowledged himself a convert to the 
Catholic faith. He died in 1700. His 
poems are remarkable for power of ex- 
pression and reasoning, and his works 
occupy a deservedly high rank in English 
literature. He was buried among the 
poets in Westminster Abbey, where a 
plain tablet simply records his name. 



ODE TO ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 
L 
From harmony, from heavenly harmony, 
This universal frame began. 



32 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



When nature, underneath a heap 

Ot jarring atoms lay. 

And could not heave her head, 

The tuneful voice was heard from high, 

"Arise, ye more than dead." 

Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, 

In order to tiieir stations leap, 

And music's power obey. 

From harmony, from heavenly harmony. 

This universal frame began: 

From harmony to harmony, 

Through all the compass of the notes it 

ran. 
The diapason closing full in man. 

II. 

What passion can not music raise and 

quell? 
When Jubal struck the corded shell. 
His listening brethren stood around. 
And, wondering, on their faces fell 
To worship tliat celestial sound. 
Less than a God, they thought there could 

not dwell 
Witliin the hollow of that shell, 
That spoke so sweetly and so well — 
What passion can not music raise and 

quell? 

in. 

The trumpet's loud charger 

Excites us to arms, 

With shrill notes of anger 

And mortal alarms — 

The double, double, double beat 

Of the thundering drum 

Cries, " hark ! the foe comes. 

Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat." 

IV. 

The soft complaining flute, 
In dying notes, discovers 
The woes of iiapless lovers, 
Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling 
lute. 

V. 

Sharp violins proclaim 

Their jealous pangs and desperation. 

Fury, frantic indignation. 

Depths of pain and hight of passion 

For the fair, disdainful dame. 



VI. 

But oh ! what art can teach. 

What human voice can reach 

The sacred organ's praise? 

Notes inspiring holy love. 

Notes that wing their heavenly ways 

To mend the choirs above. 

VII. 

Orpheus could lead the savage race, 
And trees uprooted left their place. 
Sequacious of the lyre; 
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder 

higher. 
When to iier organ vocal breath was given. 
An angel heard, and straight appeared, 
Mistaking earth for heaven. 

GRAND CHORUS. 

As from the power of sacred lays 

Tne spheres began to move, 

And sang the great Creator's praise 

To all the bless'd above; 

So when the last and dreadful hour 

This crumbling pageant shall devour, 

The trumpet shall be heard on high. 

The dead shall live, the living die. 

And music shall untune the sky. 



AN INCANTATION. 
L 
Choose the darkest part o' th' grove, 
Such as ghosts at noonday love. 
Dig a trench, and dig it nigh 
Where the bones of Laius lie; 
Altars raised of turf, or stone. 
Will the infernal powers have none. 
Answer me, if this be done? 
'Tis done. 

IL 

Is the sacrifice made fit? 
Draw her backward to the pit: 
Draw the barren heifer back: 
Barren let her be, and black. 
Cut the curled hair that grows 
Fall betwixt her horns and brows; 
And turn your faces from the sun. 
Answer me, if this be done? 
'Tis done. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



83 



in. 

Pour in blood, and blood-like wine, 
To Mother Earth and Proserpine: 
Mingle milk into the stream; 
Feast the ghosts that love the steam: 
Snatch a brand from funeral pile: 
Toss it in, to make them boil; 
And turn your faces from the sun. 
Answer me, if this be done? 
'Tis done. 



ALEXANDER POPE. 

1688 — 1744. 
Alexander Pope was born in London in 
1688, died in 1744, As a poet, Pope holds 
a first place. In his " Rape of the Lock " 
he has blended the most delicate satire 
with the most lively fancy, and produced 
the finest and most brilliant mock-heroic 
poem in the world. His '• Essay on Man,'' 
"Essay on Criticism," and "Temple of 
Fame," are each unsurpassed in beauty 
and elegance of style. 



ON PRIDE. 
Of all the causes which conspire to blind 
Man's erring judgment, and misguide 

the mind, 
■yViiat the weak head with strongest bias 

rules, 
Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools. 
Wiiatever nature has in worth denied. 
She gives in large recruits of needful 

pride I 
For, as in bodies, thus in souls, we find 
What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd 

with wind, 
Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our de- 
fence, 
And fills up all the mighty void of sense. 
If once right reason drives that cloud 

away, 
Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. 
Trust not yourself; but, your defects to 

know, 
Make use of every friend— and every foe, 
A little learning is a dangerous thing; 
Drink deep, or taste not tlie Pierian spring: 
8 



Tliere shallow draughts intoxicate the 

brain; 
And drinking largely sobers it again. 
Fired at first sight with what the muse 

imparts. 
In fearless youth we tempt the heights of 

arts, 
While, from the bounded level of our 

mind, 
Short views we take, nor see the lengths 

behind; 
But more advanced, behold, with strange 

surprise. 
New distant scenes of endless science rise ! 
So, pleased at first the towering Alps we 

try, 
Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread 

the sky; 
Th' eternal snows appear already past, 
And the first clouds and mountains seem 

the last; 
But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey 
The growing labors of the lengthen'd 

way; 
Th' increasing prospect tires our wonder^ 

ing eyes; 
Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise. 



THE MESSIAH. 
Rapt into future times, the bard begun: 
A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a son ! 
From Jesse's root behold a branch arise, 
Whose sacred flow'r with fragrance fills 

the skies: 
The etiiereal spirit o'er its leaves shall 

move. 
And on its top descends the mystic dove. 
Ye heavens ! from higli the dewy nectar 

pour, 
And in soft silence shed the kindly show'r! 
The sick and weak, the healing plant 

shall aid, 
From storms a shelter, and from heat a 

shade. 
All crimes sliall cease, and ancient frauds 

shall fail; 
Returning Justice lift aloft her scale; 
Peace o'er the world her olive wand ex- 
tend, 



34 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



And white-robed Innocence from heaven 

descend. 
Swift fly the years, and rise the expected 

morn; 
Oh, spring to light, auspicious Babe; be 

born! 
Harlj ! a glad voice the lonely desert 

cheers; 
Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears ! 
Lo ! earth receives him from the bending 

sliies: 
Sink down, ye mountains, and ye valleys 

rise ! 
With heads reclined, ye cedars homage 

pay; 
Be smooth, ye rocks; ye rapid floods, give 

way ! 
The Saviour comes ! by ancient bards fore- 
told; 
Hear him, ye deaf; and all ye blind, be- 
hold. 
He from thick films shall purge the visual 

ray, 
And on the sightless eye-ball pour the 

day: 
'Tis he the obstructed paths of sound 

shall clear. 
And bid new music charm the unfolding 

ear; 
The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch 

forego, 
And leap exulting, like the bounding roe. 
No sigh, no murmur, the wide world sliall 

hear; 
From every face he wipes off every tear. 
In adamantine chains shall Death be 

bound, 
And hell's grim tyrant feel the eternal 

wound. 
As the good sliepherd tends his fleecy care, 
Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest 

air; 
Elxplores the lost, the wandering sheep 

directs. 
By day o'ersees them, and by night pro- 
tects; 
The tender lambs he raises in his arms, 
Feeds from his band, and in his bosom 

warms; 



Thus shall mankind his guardian care en- 
gage. 

The promised Father of the future age. 

No more shall nation against nation rise, 

Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful 
eyes. 

Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd 
o'er. 

The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more; 

But useless lances into scythes shall bend. 

And the broad falchion in a plowshare 
end. 

The lambs with wolves shall graze the 
verdant mead. 

And boys in flow'ry bands the tiger leai 

The steer and lion at one crib shall inee', 

And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's 
feet. 

The smiling infant in his hands shall take 

The crested basilisk and speckled snake. 

Please- 1 the green lustre of the scales 
survv. 

And with their forky tongue shall inno- 
cently play. 

The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke 
decay, 

Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt 
away; 

But fix'd his word, his saving power re- 
mains; 

Thy realm forever lasts, thy own Messah 
reigns ! 



THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 

Vital spark of heavenly flame, 
Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame: 
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, 
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying ! 
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife. 
And let me languish into life ! 

Hark ! they whisper— angels say, 
" Sister spirit, come away !" 
What is this absorbs me quite? 
Steals my senses, shuts ray sight, 
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? 
Tell me, my soul, can this be death? 

The world recedes, it disappears ! 
Heaven opens to my eyes !— my ears 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 85 


With sounds seraphic ring; 


All nature seemed in still repose 


Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! 


Her voice alone to hear, 


Grave I where is thy victory? 


That gently rolled the tuneful wave. 


Death ! where is thy sting? 


She spoke, she blessed my ear; 





" Take, take whate'er of bliss or joy 


WILLIAM HAMILTON. 


You fondly fancy mine; 




Whate'er of joy or bliss I boast 


1704 — 1754. 


Love renders wholly thine." 


William Hamilton, of Bangour, was 




horn in Scotland in 170i, In 1745 he 


The woods struck up to the soft gale, 


joined the standard of the pretender, 


Tiie leaves were seen to move, 


Prince Charles. On the discomfiture of 


Tiie feathered choir resumed their voice. 


the party he escaped to France, but was 


And wonder filled the grove. 


soon pardoned. He wrote many lyrical 


The hills and dales again resound 


poems. He died in 1754. 


The lambkin's tender cry. 





With all his murmurs Yarrow trilled 


SONG. 


The song of triumph by; 


Ye shepherds of this pleasant vale, 


Above, beneath, around, on all 


Where Yarrow streams along, 


Was verdure, beauty, song; 


Forsake your rural toils, and join 


I snatched her to my trembling breast, 


In my triumphant song. 


And nature joyed along. 


Slie grants, siie yields; one heavenly smile 





Atones her long delays, 


THOMAS MOORE. 


One liappy minute crowns the pains 




Of many suffering days. 


1779— 1852. 




Thomas Moore was born in Dublin, May 


Raise, raise the victor notes of joy, 


28, 1779, and died February 25, 1852. Of 


These suffering days are o'er; 


his life and works it is not necessary to 


Love satiates now his boundless wish 


speak. They have rendered him famous 


From beauty's boundless store. 
No doubtful liopes, no anxious fears, 


the world over. 




THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. 


This rising calm destroy; 




Now every prospect smiles around, 


There is not in the wide world a valley so 


All opening into joy. 


sweet 




As that vale in whose bosom the bright 


Tne sun with double lustre shone 


waters meet; 


That dear consenting hour. 


Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must 


Brightened each hill, and o'er each vale 


depart. 


New colored every flower. 


Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade 




from my heart. 


The gales iheir gentle sighs withheld. 




No leaf was seen to move. 


Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er 


The hovering songsters round were mute. 


the scene 


And wonder hushed the grove. 


Her purest of crystal and brightest of 




green; 


The hills and dales no more resound 


'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or 


The lambkin's tender cry; 


hill, 


Without one murmur Yarrow stole 


Oh, no,— it was something more exquisite 


In dimpling silence by; 


still. 



86 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



*Twa8 that friends, the beloved of my 
bosom, were near, 

Who made every dear scene of enchantr 
ment more dear. 

And who felt how the best charms of na- 
ture improve, 

When we see them reflected from looks 
that we love. 

Sweet vale of Avoca 1 how calm could I 
rest 

In thy bosom of shade, with tlie friends I 
love best. 

Where the storms that we feel in this cold 
world should cease, 

And our hearts, like thy waters, be min- 
gled in peace. 



OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.* 
Oh 1 blame not the bard, if he fly to the 

bowers, 
Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling 
at Fame; 
He was born for much more, and in hap- 
pier hours 
His soul might have burned with a 
holier flame. 
The string, thac now languishes loose o'er 
the lyre, 
Might have bent a proud bow to tlie 
warrior's dart;t 
And the lip, which now breathes but the 
song of desire, 
Might have pour'd the full tide of a 
patriot's heart. 

*We may suppose this apology to have been 
uttered by one of those wandering bards, whom 
Spencer so severely, and perhaps truly, de- 
scribes In his "State of Ireland," and whose 
poems, he tells us, "were sprinkled with some 
pretty tlowers of their natural device, which 
have good grace and comeliness unto them, the 
which it is great pity to see abused to the grac- 
ing of wickedness and vice, which, with good 
usage, would serve to adorn and beautify vir- 
tue." 

tit Is conjectured, by Wormlus, that the 
name of Ireland is derived from Tr, the Kunic 
for a bow, In the use of which weapon the Irish 
were once very expert. This derivation is cer- 
tainly more creditable to us than the following: 
"So that Ireland, called the land of Ire. from 
the constant broils therein for 400 years, was 
now become the land of concord." — Lloyd's 
State Worthies, art. T/ie Lord Qrandeson. 



Bit alas for his country !— her pride is 
eone by. 
And that spirit is broken, whicli never 
would bend; 
O'er the ruin her children in secret must 
sigh, 
For 'tis treason to love her, and death to 
defend. 
Unpriz'd are her sons, till they've learu'd 
to betray; 
Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame 
not their sires; 
And the torch, that would light them thro' 
dignity's way. 
Must be c lught from the pile, where 
their country expures. 

Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's 

soft dream. 

He should try to forget what he never 

can heal; 

Oh ! give but a hope— let a vista but gleam 

Through the gloom ot his country, and 

mark how he'li feel ! 

That instant, iiis heart at her shrine would 

lay down 

Every passion it nurs'd, every bliss it 

artor'd ; 

Wliile tiie myrtle, now idly entwined with 

his crown, 

Like the wreath of Harmodious, should 

cover his sword.* 

But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade 

away, 

Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his 

songs; 

Not ev'n in the hour, when his heart is 

most gay, 

Will he lose the remembrance of thee 

and thy wrongs. 

The stranger shall hear thy lament on his 

plains; 

The sigh of thy harp sliall be sent o'er 

the deep. 

Till thy masters themselves, as Uiey rivet 

thy chains, 

Shall pause at the song of their captive, 

and weep. 

*See the Hymn, attributed to Alcaeus— " I 
will carry my sword, hidden in myrtles, like 
I Harmodius, and Aristogiton," etc. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



87 



THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.* 

"They made her a grave, too cold and 
damp 
For a soul so warm and true ; 
And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal 

Swamp, 
Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp, 
She paddles her light canoe. 

And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see. 
And her paddle I soon shall hear ; 
Long and loving our life shall be, 
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree, 
Wiien the footstep of death is near." 

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds— 

His path was rugged and sore. 
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, 
Through many a fen, where the serpent 
feeds, 
And man never trod before. 

And, when on the earth he sank to 
sleep. 

If slumber his eyelids knew. 
He lay where the deadly vine doth weep 
Its venomous tear, and nightly steep 

The flesh with blistering dew ! 

And near him the she-wolf stirred the 
brake, 
And the copper-snake breathed in his 
ear, 
Till he starting cried, from his dream 

awake, 
"0, when shall I see the dusky lake, 
And the white canoe of my dear ?" 

He saw the lake, and a meteor bright 

Quick over its surface played— 
"Welcome," he said, "my dear one's 

light ! " 

*"They tell of a young man who lost Ws mind 
upon the deaili of a girl he loved, and who, sud- 
d( nly disapp,\u-iiig from his friends, was never 
afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, 
in his ravings, that the girl was nor dead, but 
gone to th'^ Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had 
wandered into that dreary wilderness and had 
died of hunger or been lost in some of Its dread- 
ful morasses." The Great Dismal Swamp is ten 
or twelve miles distant from Norfolk, Va., where 
lliis ballad was written, and the Lake in the 
m.ddle of it (about seven miles long; is called 
Druiumond's Pond. 



And the dim shore echoed, for many a 
night. 
The name of the death-cold maid. 

Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen 
bark. 
Which carried him off from shore ; 
Far, far he followed the meteor spark, 
The wind was high and the clouds were 
dark. 
And the boat returned no more. 

But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp, 

This lover and maid so true 
Are seen at the hour of midnight damp 
To cross the lake by a fire-fly lamp, 
And paddle their white canoe I 



RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS 
SHE WORE.* 

AiB — The Summer is coming. 

Rich and rare were the gems she wore, 
And a bright gold ring on her wand she 

bore ; 
But oh ! her beauty was far beyond 
Her sparkling gems or snow-white wand. 

" Lady ! dost thou not fear to stray. 

So lone and lovely through this bleak way? 

Are Erin's sons so good or so cold 

As not to be tempted by woman or gold ? " 

"Sir Knight ! I feel not the least alarm, 
No son of Erin will offer me harm— 
For though they love women and golden 

store. 
Sir Knight ! they love honor and virtue 

more I " 

* This ballad Is founded upon the following 
anecdote: " The people were inspired with such 
a spirit of honor, virtue and religion, by the 
great example of Bjien, and by his excellent ad- 
ministration, that, as a proof of it, we are in- 
formed that a young lady of great beauty, 
adorned with jewels and a costly dress, under- 
took a journey alone from one end of the king- 
dom to the otlier, with a wand only in her hand, 
at the top of which was a ring of exceeding 
great value ; and such an impression had the 
laws and government of this monarch made on 
the minds of all the people, that no attempt was 
made upon her honor, nor was she robbed of her 
clotlies or jewels." — Warner's History qf Ire- 
land, vol. i, book 10. 



38 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



On she went, and her maiden smile 
In safety liglited her round the green isle, 
And blessed forever is she who relied 
Upon Erin's honor and Erm's pride I 



A HYMN. 
Like morning, when her early breeze 
Breaks up the surface of the seas, 
That, in those furrows, dark with night, 
Her hand may sow the seeds of light— 

Thy Grace can send its breathing o'er 
The spirit, dark and lost before. 
And, fresli'ning all its depths, pijpare 
For Truth divine to enter there. 

Till David touch'd his sacred lyre 
In silence lay th' unbreathing wire ; 
But when he swept its chords along, 
Ev'n angels stoop'd to hear that song. 

So sleeps the soul, till Thou, O Lord, 
Shall deign to touch its lifeles? cliori— 
Till, waked by Thee, its brea;h shall rise 
In music, worthy of the skies ! 

RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 

1789—1847. 
Richard Henry Wilde was born in Dub- 
lin in 1789, and, with his parents, came to 
Baltimore in 1797. Some years later his 
family removed to Georgia. He was ad- 
mitted to the bar in 1815, and became At- 
torney-general of the State. He several 
times represented Georgia in tiie National 
Congress. In 1844 he went to New Or- 
leans, and becami^ a Professor of Law In 
the University of Louisiana, which post 
he retained until his death on September 
10, 1847. The following poem has ren- 
dered him famous: 

MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. 

My life is like the Summer rose, 

That opens to the morning sky. 
But ere the shades of evening close, 
Is scatter'd on the ground to die ! 
Yet on the humble rose's bed, 
The sweetest dews of night are shed; 
As if she wept the waste to see;— 
But none shall weep a tear for me 1 



My life is like the Autumn leaf 

That trembles in the moon's pale ray; 
Its hold is frail, its date is brief. 

Restless, and soon to pass away I 
Yet ere that leaf shall fall and fade. 
The parent tree will mourn its shade, 
The winds bewail the leafless tree,— 
But none shall breathe a sigh for me I 

My life is like the prints, which feet 

Have left on Tampa's desert strand, 
Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 

All trace will vanish from the sand I 
Yet, as if grieving to efface 
All vestige of the human race. 
On that lone shore loud moans the sea,- 
But none, alas, shall mourn for me I 



WILLIAM MAGINN". 

1794-1842. 
William Miginn was born in Cork, 
November It, 1794, and died at Walion- 
on-Thames, near London, August 21, 1842. 
He wrote numerous and valuable papers 
for the magazines, which were distin- 
guished for their wit and sclioiarship. 
Maginn was the founder of Frazer's Mag- 
azine, in the conducting of which he was 
supported by " F.ither Prout," and other 
famous writers. 



I GIVE MY SOLDIER-BOY A BLADE. 

I give my soldier-boy a blade; 

In fair D.imascus fashioned well: 
Who first tiie glittering falchion swayed. 

Who first beneath its fury fell, 
I know not, but I hope to know 

That for no mean or hireling trade, 
To guard no feeling base or low, 

I gave my soldier- boy a blade. 

Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood 

In which its tempering work was done; 
As calm, as clear, as cool of mood. 

Be thou whene'er it sees the sun ; 
For country's claim, at honor's call. 

For outraged friend, insulted mai<J, 
At mercy's voice to bid it fall, 

I give my soldier-bay a blade. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



89 



The eye which marked Us peerless edge, 

The hand that weighed its balanced 
poise, 
Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge. 

Are gone with all their flaming noise — 
And still the gleaming sword remains: 

So, when in dust I low am laid, 
Remember, by these heartfelt strains, 

I gave my soldier-boy a blade. 

J. J. CALLANAN. 

1795—1829. 
Jeremiah Joseph Callanan was born in 
Cork ill 1795. He was educated for the 
priesthood, but the delicate state of his 
health, and the restless spirit which after- 
wards became the bane of his existence, 
impelled him, after a residence of two 
years, to quit Maynooth, and resign his 
prospects in the clerical profession. In 
1820 he entered Trinity College as an out- 
pensioner, intending to study for the bar; 
but after a two- years' trial he relinquished 
this also. In 1823 he became an assistant 
in the school of Dr. Maginn, at Cork, 
but remained there only a few months. 
Through Maginn's introduction, he be- 
came a contributor to Blackwood's Mag- 
azine. During these six years, and up 
to 1829, he spent his time in rambling 
through the country collecting the old 
Irish ballads and legends, and in giving 
them a new dress in a new tongue. Early 
in 1829 he became a tutor in the family of 
an Irish gentleman in Lisbon, and on the 
19th of September, of the same year, he 
died there. 



MARY MAGDALEN. 

To the hall of that feast came the sinful 

and fair; 
She heard in the city that Jesus was there: 
She raark'd not the splendor that blazed 

on tiieir board. 
But silently knelt at the feet of her Lord. 

The hair from her forehead, so sad and so 

meek. 
Hung dark o'er the blushes that burn'd 

on her cheek ; 



And 80 still and so lowly she bent in her 

shame. 
It seem'd as her spirit had flown from its 

frame. 

The frown and the murmur went round 

through them all. 
That one so unhallow'd should tread in 

that hall; 
And some said the poor would be objects 

more meet, 
For the wealth of the perfumes she 

shower'd at his feet. 

She mark'd but her Saviour, she spoke 

but in sighs. 
She dared not look up to the heaven of 

his eyes; 
And the hot tears gush'd forth at each 

heave of her breast. 
As her hps to his sandals she throbbingly 

press'd. 

On the cloud after tempests, as shineth 

the bow. 
In the glance of the sunbeam, as meltetli 

the snow. 
He look'd on that lost one— her sins were 

forgiven; 
And Mary went forth in the beauty of 

heaven. 



IF I LOSE THEE, I'M LOST. 

Shine on, thou bright beacon, 

Unclouded and free, 
From thy high place of calmness 

O'er life's troubled sea; 
Its morning of promise. 

Its smooth waves are gone, 
And the billows roar wildly; 

Then, bright one, shine on. 
The wings of the tempest 

May rush o'er thy ray; 
But tranquil thou smilest, 

Undimm'd by its sway ; 
High, high o'er the worlds 

Where storms are unknown, 
Thou dwellest all beauteous. 

All glorious,— alone. 
From the deep womb of darkness 

The lightning-flash leaps, 



40 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 


O'er the bark of my fortunes 


Of thy young, faithful smile. 


Eacii mad billow sweeps; 


Ailleen, 


From the port of her safety, 


Of thy young, faithful smile. 


By wiUTUig winds driven, 




And no light o'er her course 


And I go to brave a world I iiate, 


But yon lone one of Heaven. 


And woo it o'er :id o'er. 


Yet fear not, thou frail one. 


And tempt a wave, and try a fate 


The hour may be near, 


Upon a stranger shore, 


When our own sunny liead-land 


Ailleen, 


Far off shall appear; 


Upon a stranger shore. 


When the voice of the storm 


Oh, when the bays are all my own, 


Shall be silent and past, 


I know a heart will care ! 


In some island of Heaven 


Oh, when the gold is wooed and won, 


We may anchor at last. 


I know a brow shall wear. 


But, bark of eternity, 


Ailleen, 


Where art thou now? 


I know a brow shall wear I 


Tiie wild waters shriek 




O'er each plunge of thy prow; 


And when with both returned again. 


On ilie world's dreary ocean 


My native lanJ to see, 


Thus shattered and tost;— 


I know a smile will meet me there, 


Then, lone one, shine on. 


And a hand will welcome me. 


"If I lose thee, I'm lost." 


Ailleen, 


o 


And a hand will welcome me I 


JOHN BANIM. 







REV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 


1798—1842. 




John Banim was born in Kilkenny. Ire- 


1800— 1866. 


lantl, April 3, 1798. He wrote several fine 


The Rev. Francis Mahony, "Father 


novels, and contributed largely to British 


Prout," was born in Cork, Ireland. His 


periodicals. He died in 1842. 


biographers do not agree as to the year of 




his birth, but it is usually placed at from 
1800 to ISO'S. He became a member of the 


AILLEEN. 


Society of Jesus, but soon ceased to ex- 


'Tis not for love of gold I go. 


ercise the office of a priest, and devoted 


'lis not for love of fame; 


himself to literature. He was one of rhe 


Though Fortune should her smile bestow. 


contributors to Frazefs Magazine in its 


And I may win a name. 


best days. He is best known by his " Bells 


Ailleen, 


of Shandon" and his famous "Reliques 


And I may win a name. 


of Father Prout." He died in 1866. 


And yet it is for gold I go. 






And yet it is for fame, 


THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 


That they may deck another brow. 




And bless another name, 


I. 


Ailleen, 


With deep affection 


And bless another name. 


And recollection. 




I often think of those Shandon Bells, 


For this, but this, I go— for this 


Whose sounds, so wild, would 


I lose thy love awhile, 


In tlie days of childhood, 


And all the soft and quiet bliss 


Fling round my cradle their magic spells. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



41 



On this I ponder 

Where'er I wander, 
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of 
thee. 

With thy bells of Shandon, 

Which sound so grand, on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lea. 

n. 

I've heard bells cliiming 

Full many a dime in. 
Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine, 

While at a glibe rate 

Brass tongues would vibrate ; 
But all their music spoke naught like 
thine ; 

For memory, dwelling 

On each proud swelling 
Of thy belfry knelling its bold tones free, 

Made the bells of Shandon 

Sound far more grand, on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lea. 

IIL 

I've heard bells tolling 

"Old Adrian's mole" in, 
Their thunder rolling from the Vatican, 

And cymbals glorious. 

Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame ; 

But thy sounds are sweeter 

Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly— 

Oh, the bells of Shandon 

Sound far more yrand, on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lea. 

IT. 

There's a bell in Moscow, 

While in tower and Kiosko 
Of St. Sophia the churchman gets, 

And, high in air. 

Calls men to prayer ^j 

From the tapering summit of tall mine- 
rets ; 

Such empty phantom 

I freely grant them. 
But there's an anthem more dear to me ; 

'Tis the bells of Shandon, 

Which sound so grand, on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lea. 



THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT, 

There's a legend thafs told of a gypsy 
who dwelt 
In the lands where the pyramids be ; 
And her robe was embroidered with stars, 
and her belt 
With devices, right wondrous to see ; 
And she lived in the days when our Lord 
was a child 
On His mother's immaculate breast ; 
When He tied from His foes— when to 
E^ypt exiled. 
He went down with St. Joseph the blest. 

This Egyptian held converse with magic, 
methinks. 
And the future was given to her gaze, 
For an obelisk marked her abode, and a 
sphinx 
On her threshold kept vigil always. 
She was pensive, and ever alone, nor was 
seen 
In the haunts of the dissolute crowd, 
But communed with the ghosts of the 
Pharaoahs, I ween. 
Or with visitors wrapped in a shroud. 

And there came an old man from the 
desert one day. 
With a maid on a mule, by that road. 
And a child on her bosom reclined— and 
the way 
Led them straight to the gypsy's abode ; 
And they seemed to have travelled a 
wearisome path 
From their home many, many a league — 
From a tyrant's pursuit, from an enemy's 
wrath. 
Spent with toil, and o'ercome with 
fatigue. 

And the sypsy came forth from her dwell- 
ing, and prayed 
That the pilgrims would rest them 
awhile ; 
And she offered her couch to that delicate 
maid. 
Who had come many, many a mile ; 
And she fondled the babe with affection's 
caress. 



42 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



And she begged the old man would 

repose ; 
" Here, the stranger," she said, " ever finds 

free access, 
And the wanderer balm for his woes," 

Then her guests from the glare of the 
noonday she led 
To a seat in her grotto so cool ; 
Wliere she spread them a banquet of 
fruits— and a shed, 
With a manger, was found for the 
mule ; 
With the wine of the palm-tree, with the 
dates newly culled. 
All the toil of the road she beguiled, 
And with song, in a language mysterious, 
she lulled 
On her bosom the wayfaring child. 

When the gypsy anon, in her Ethiop liand 

Placed the infant's dimiimtive palm, 
Oh, 'twas fearful to see how the features 
she scanned 
Of the babe in His slumbers so calm ! 
Well, she noted each mark and eacli fur- 
row that crossed 
O'er the tracings of destiny's line : 
" Whence came ye ? " she cried, in aston- 
ishment lost, 
"Fob this child is op Lineage Di- 
vine." 

"From the village of Nazareth," Josepli 
replied, 
"Where we dwelt in the land of the 
Jew ; 
We have fled from a tyrant whose gar- 
ment is dyed 
In the gore of the children he slew ; 
We were told to remain until an angel's 
command 
Should appoint us the hour to return ; 
Bat till then we inhabit the foreigner's 
land, 
And in Egypt we make our sojourn." 

" Then ye tarry with me," cried the gypsy 
in joy, 
"And ye make of my dwelling your 
home. 



Many years have I prayed that the Israel- 
ite boy 
(Blessed hope of the Gentiles !) would 
come." 
And she kissed both the feet of the infant, 
and knelt 
And adored Him at once ;— then a smile 
Lit the face of His mother, who cheer- 
fully dwelt 
With her host on the banks of the Nile. 

POPULAR RECOLLECTIONS OF BONA- 
PARTE. 
(from beranger.) 

They'll talk of him for years to come. 

In cottage chronicle and tale; 
When for aught else renown is dumb. 

His legend shall prevail ! 
Then in the hamlet's honored ciiair 

Shall sit some aged dame, 
Teaching to lowly clown and villager 

That narrative of fame, 
'lis true, they'U say, his gorgeous throne 
France bled to raise; 
But he was all our own ! 
Mother ! say something in his praise — 

speak of him always ! 

" I saw him pass ; his was a liost. 
Countless beyond your young imagin- 
ings— 
My children, he could boast 

A train of conquered kings ! 
And when he came this road, 

'Twas on my bridal day, 
He wore, for near to him I stood. 

Cocked hat and surcoat gray. 
I blushed; he said: 'Be of good cheer ! 
Courage, my dear ! ' 
That was his very word." 
Mother ! then this really occurred, 
And you his voice could hear ! 

" A year rolled on, when next at Paris I, 
Lone woman that I am, 
Saw him pass by. 
Girt with his peers, to kneel at Notre 

Dame, 
I knew by merry chime and signal gun, 
God granted him a son, 
And ! I wept for joy I 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



43 



For why not weep when warrior men did, 
Who gazed upon that sight so splendid, 

And blest th' Imperial boy? 
Never did noonday sun shine out so 
bright ! 

what a sight ! " 

Mother I for you that must have been 

A glorious scene ! 

"But when all Europe's gathered strength 
Burst o'er the French frontier at length, 

'Twill scarcely be believed 
What wonders, eingle-handed, he achiev- 
ed. 

Such general never lived I 
One evening on my threshold stood 

A guest — 'twas he ! Of warriors few 

He had a toil worn retinue. 
He flung himself into this chair of wood. 

Muttering, meantime, with fearful air, 

' Quelle guerre ! oh, quelle guerre ! '" 
Mother ! and did our emperor sit there. 

Upon that very chair ? 

" He said, ' Give me some food.' 
Brown loaf I gave, and homely wine, 
And made the kindling fireblocks shine. 

To dry his cloak with wet bedewed. 
Soon by the bonny blaze he slept, 
Then waking chid me (for I wepi); 

' Courage ! ' he cried, ' I'll strike for all 
Under the sacred wall 
Of France's noble capital ! ' 

Those were his words: I've treasured up 
With pride that same wine cup; 
And for its weight in gold 
It never shall be sold ! " 

Mother ! on that proud relic let us gaze. 
O keep thut cup always ! 

"But through some fatal witchery. 

He, whom a Pope had crowned and 
blest, 
Perished, my sons I by foulest treachery: 

Cast on an isle far in the lonely West. 
Long time sad rumors were afloat— 

The fatal tidings we would spurn. 
Still hoping from that isle remote 

Once more our liero would return. 
But when the dark announcement drew 

Tears from the virtuous and the brave— 



Wiien the sad whisper proved too true, 
A flood of grief I to his memory gave. 
Peace to the glorious dead ! " 
Mother ! may God His fullest blessings 
shed 
Upon your aged head I 



CARDINAL NEWMAN. 

1801 . 

John Henry Newman was born Feb- 
ruary 21, 1801. In 1845 he became a con- 
vert to the Catholic faith, and was or- 
dained priest in Rome, May 26, 1847. He 
is undoubtedly one of the greatest minds 
of the present century. His prose works 
are unrivaled for majesty, vigor and 
copiousness, and his verses are full of har- 
mony. He was created a Cardinal in 1879. 
He is considered the greatest living mas- 
ter of English composition 



THE QUEEN OF THE SEASONS. 

All is divine 

Which the Higliest has made. 
Through the days that He wrought, 

Till the day when He stayed — 
Above and below, 

Within and around, 
From the center of space 

To its uttermost bound. 

In beauty surpassing 

The universe smiled ' 
On the morn of its birth. 

Like an innocent child. 
Or like a rich bloom 

Of some gorgeous flower; 
And the Father rejoiced 

In the work of His power. 

Yet worlds brighter still. 

And a brighter than those, 
And a brighter again 

He had made, had He chose; 
And you never could name 

That conceivable best. 
To exhaust the resources 

The Maker possessed. 



44 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 


But I know of one work 


And they stand in glittering ring 


Of His infinite hand 


Riund their warrior God and King:, 


Whicli special and singular 


Who before and for them bled. 


Ever must stand, 


With their robes of ruby red, 


So perfect, so pure. 


And their swords of cherub flame. 


And of gifts such a store, 




That even Omnipotence 


Yes; there is a plenty there, 


Ne'er shall do more. 


Knights without reproach or fear; 




Such St. Denys, such St. George, 


The freshness of May, 


Martin, Maurice, Theodore, 


And the sweetness of June, 


And a hundred thousand more, 


And the fire of July 


Guerdon gained and warfare o'er, 


In its passionate noon, 


By that sea without a surge, 


Munificent August, 


And beneath the eternal sky, 


September serene. 


And the beatific Sun 


Are together no match 


In Jerusalem above. 


For my glorious Queen. 


Valentine is every one: 


Mary ! all months 


Choose from out that company i 


And all days are thine own, 


Whom to serve, and whom to love. 


In thee lasts their joyousness 
Wlien they are gone. 




SUBMISSION. 


And we give to thee May, 




Not because it is best. 


Lead, kindly light, amid the encircling 


But because it comes first. 


gloom 


And is pledge of the rest. 


Lead Thou me on: 




The night is dark, and I am far from 
home. 


VALENTINE TO A LITTLE GIRL. 


Little maiden, dost thou pine 


Lead Thou me on ; 


For a faithful Valentine? 


Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see 


Art thou scanning timidly 


The distant scene; one step enough for 


Every face tliat meets thine eye? 


me. 


Art thou fancying there may be 


I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou 


Fairer face than thou dost see? 


Shouldst lead me on; 


Little maiden, scholar mine, 


I loved to choose and see my path; but 


Would'st thou have a Valentine? 


now 


Go and ask, my little child, 


Lead Thou me on; 


Ask the Moiher undefiled; 


I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears. 


Ask, for she will draw thee near, 


Pride ruled my will. Remember not past 


And will whisper in thine ear- 


years I 


Valentine ; the name is good. 


So long Thy power has blessed me, sure 


For it comes of lineage high 


it still 


And a famous family. 


Will lead me on 


And it tells of gentle blood, 


O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent 


Noble blood, and nobler still, 


till 


For its owner freely poured 


The night is gone; 


Every drop there was to spill 


And with the morn those angel faces 


In the battle for his Lord. 


smile 


Valentine: I know the name; 


Which I have loved long since, and Jost 


Many martyrs bear the same; 


awhile 1 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



45 



Meanwhile, along the narrow, rugged 
path 
Thyself hast trod. 
Lead, Saviour, lead me home in childlike 
faith, 
Home to my God, 
To rest forever after earthly strife. 
In the calm ligiit of everlasting life. 

CARDINAL NICHOLAS WISE- 
MAN. 

1802—1865. 
His Eminence Cardinal Wiseman, first 
Arclibisliop of Westminster, was born in 
Seville, Spain, August 2, 1803. He was 
ordained priest in 1825. He was un- 
.doubtedly one of the greatest men of the 
ppesent age. He was noted for fiis bril- 
liant and learned powers of controversy, 
as a distinguished linguist, as well as a 
theologian. He died February 16, 1865. 



A SONNET. 
[The following sonnet was written by 
Cardinal Wiseman some forty years ago, 
in a letter to a friend, but never published. 
It ri'fers to his great work on " Science 
and Revealed Religion." In his letter he 
says: "In a moment of great presump- 
tion, I resolved to premise to them (the 
lectures) a sonnet, by way of dedication. 
I send it for your friendly inspection, re- 
questing noi merely that you will suggest 
any alteration, but that you will frankly 
say, if you think so, that it will not do." 
In a postscript he added: "Even if ap- 
proved, I do not tliink tlitit I shall have 
courage to publisli it." The verses are 
not equal to his later compositions; but 
they are by ho means without interest 
now, both on account of the diffiJent ex- 
pressions which accompanied them, and 
also for their own sentiments, which his 
whole life constantly illustrated.] 

Some dive for pearls to crown a mortal 

brow, 
Some fondly garlands weave to dress the 

shrine 



Of earthly beauty. It is my design. 
Learning t' enchase that lay concealed till 

now, 
And from all science pluck each greenest 

bough. 
But not to deck the earthly, while divine 
Beauty and majesty, supreme as thine. 
Religion ! shall my humble gift allow. 
Thine was my childhood's path-lamp, and 

the oil 
Of later watchings has but fed the flame! 
While I, embroidering here with pleasant 

toil 
My imaged traceries around thy name, 
This banner weave (in part from hostile 

spoil). 
And pay my fealty to thy highest claim. 



SONNET OF ST. THOMAS. 
'Tis not Thy promised heavenly reward 
Attracts me, my God ! to love of Thee: 
Nor am I moved from sin's reproach to 
flee 
By fear of its eternal fierce award. 
'Tis Thou who drawest me, my loving 
Lord I 
Mangled and nailed to a disgraceful 

tree, 
Ttiy wounded Body steals my heart from 
me; 
Thy death mid scoffings strikes its deep- 
est chord. 
Yes; Thy love lifts me to such lofty scope. 
That I would love Thee were no heaven 

above. 
And, were no hell beneath, would fear 

to sin. 
Nought dost Tiiou owe me my poor 
love to win; 
For, if I hoped not for what now 1 hope. 
Still as I love Thee now, I then would 
love. 

JAMES CLAKENCE MANGAN. 
1803 — 1849. 

James Clarence Mangan was born in 
Dublin in 1803. His early education was 
limited, and for years he mai.itained him- 
self, and helped support his father's fam- 



4G 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



ily, as a copyist. He became addicted to 
brandy and opium early in life, and passed 
a most wretched existence. He was one 
of the most artistic and musical of the 
poets of the present century, yet his verses 
are but little linown. He died in 1849. 



AND THEN NO MORE. 

I saw her once, one little while, and then 

no more ; 
'Twas Eden's light on earth awhile, and 

then no more. 
Amid the throng she passed along the 

meadow floor ; 
Spring seemed to smile on earth awliile, 

and then no more. 
But whence she came, which way she 

went, what garb she wore, 
I noted not ; I gazed awhile, and then no 

more. 

I saw her once, one little while, and then 

no more ; 
'Twas paradise on earth awhile, and then 

no more. 
Ah ! what avail my vigils pale, my magic 

lore? 
She shone before mine eyes awhile, and 

then no more. 
The shallop of my peace is wrecked on 

Beauty's shore ; 
Near Hope's fair isle it rode awhile, and 

then no more ! 

I saw her once, one little while, and then 

no more ; 
Earth looked like heaven a little while, 

and then no more. 
Her presence thrilled and lighted to its 

inner core 
My desert breast a little while, and then 

no more. 
So may, perchance, a meteor glance at 

midnight o'er 
Some ruined pile a little while, and then 

no more. 

I saw her once, one little while, and then 

no more ; 
The earth was Peri-land awhile, and then 

no more. 



Oh, might I see but once again, as once 

before. 
Through chance or wile, that shape 

awhile, and then no more ! 
Death soon would heal my griefs ! This 

heart, now sad and sore. 
Would beat anew a little while, and then 

no more ! 



THE NAMELESS ONE. 

Roll forth, my song, like the rushing 
river. 
That sweeps along to the mighty sea ; 
God will inspire me while I deliver 
My soul of thee ! 

Tell thou the world, when my bones lie 
whitening 
Amid the last homes of youth and eld, 
That there once was one whose veins ran 
lightning 
No eye beheld. 

Tell how his boyhood was one drear 
night-hour : 
How shone for Mm, through his griefs 
and gloom. 
No star of all heaven sends to light our 
Path to the tomb. 

Roll on, my song, and to after ages 

Tell how, disJaining all earth can give, 
He would have taught men, from Wis- 
dom's pages. 
The way to live. 

And tell how trampled, derided, hated. 
And worn by weakness, disease and 
wrong, 
He fled for shelter to God, who mated 
His soul with song— 

With song which always, sublime or 
vapid, 
Flowed like a rill in the morning beam. 
Perchance not deep, but intense and 
rapid— 
A mountain stream. 

Tell how this nameless, condemned for 
years long 
To herd with demons from hell beneath, 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



47 



Saw things that made him, with groans 
and tears, long 
For even death. 

Go on to tell how, with genius wasted. 

Betrayed in friendship, befooled in love. 
With spirit shipwrecked, and young 
hopes blasted. 
He still, still strove, 

Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for 
others, 
And some whose hands should have 
wrought for him, 
(K children live not for sires and mothers), 
His mind grew dim. 

And he fell far through that pit abysmal, 
The gulf and grave of Maginn and 
Burns, 
And pawned his soul for the devil's dismal 
Stock of returns ; 

But yet redeemed it in days of darkness, 
And shapes and signs of the final wrath. 
When death, in hideous and ghastly stark- 
ness, 
Stood on his path ; 

And tell how now, amid wreck and sor- 
row 
And want and sickness and houseless 
nights, 
He bides in calmness the silent morrow 
That no ray lights. 

And lives he still, then ? Yes ! Old and 
hoary 
At thirty-nnie, from despair and woe, 
He lives, enduring what future story 
Will never know. 

Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble, 
Deep in your bosom ! There let liim 
dwell ! 
He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble. 
Here and in Hell. 



DARK ROSALEEN. 

my dark Rosaleen, 
Do not sigh, do not weep ! 

The priests are on the ocean green. 
They march along the deep. 



There's wine— from the royal Pope, 

Upon the ocean green. 
And Spanish ale shall give you hope, 

My dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, 
Shall give you health and help and hope. 

My dark Rosaleen ! 

Over hills and through dales, 

Have I roamed for your sake : 
All yesterday I sailed with sails 
On river and on lake. 
The Erne— at its highest flood, 

I dashed across unseen. 
For there was lightning in my blood. 
My dark Rosaleen ! 
My own Rosaleen ! 
Oh ! there was lightning in my blood. 
Red lightning lightened through my blood. 
My dark Rosaleen 1 

All day long, in unrest. 
To and fro, do I move. 
The very soul within my breast 
Is wasted for you, love I 
The heart— in my bosom faints 
To think of you, my queen. 
My life of life, my saint of saints. 
My dark Rosaleen ! 
My own Rosaleen ! 
To hear your sweet and sad complaints, 
My life, my love, my saint of saints, 
My dark Rosaleen ! 

Woe and pain, pain and woe. 
Are my lot, night and noon. 
To see your bright face clouded so, 
Like to the mournful moon. 
But yet— will I rear your throne 

Again in golden sheen ; 
'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone. 
My dark Rosaleen 1 
My own Rosaleen ! 
'Tis you shall have the golden throne, 
'Tis you shall reign and reign alone. 
My dark Rosaleen I 

Over dews, over sands. 

Will I fly for your weal : 
Your holy, delicate white hands 

Shall girdle me with steel. 



48 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



At home, in your emerald bowers, 

From morning's dawn till e'en, 
You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers, 
My dark R )saleen ! 
My own Rosaleen ! 
You'll think of me through daylight's 

hours, 
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, 
My dark Rosaleen ! 

I could scale the blue air, 

I could plow the high hills, 
0, 1 could kneel all night in prayer, 
To heal your many ills ! 
And one beamy smile from you 

Would float like hght between 

My toils and me, my own, my true, 

My dark Rosaleen ! 

My fond Rosaleen ! 

Would give me life an 1 soul anew, 

A second life, a soul anew. 

My dark Rosaleen 1 

0, the Erne shall run red 

With redundance of blood, 
The earth shall rock beneath our tread. 
And flumes wrap hill and wood, 
And gun peal and sloean cry. 
Wake many a glen serene. 
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, 
My dark Rosaleen ! 
My own Ros ileen ! 
The judgment hour must first be nigh. 
Ere you can fade, ere you can die. 
My dark Rosaleen ! 



ELLEN BAWN. 

Ellen Bawn, oh Ellen B.ivvn, you darling, 

darling dear, you 
Sit awhile beside me here, I'll die unless 

I'm near you ! 
'Tis for you I'd swim the Suir and breast 

The Shannon's waters ; 
For, Ellen dear, you've not your peer in 

Galway's blooming daughters ! 

Had I Limerick's gems and gold, at will 

to mete and measure. 
Were Longhrea's abundance mine, and 

all Portumna's treasure. 



These might lure me, might insure me 
many and many a new love. 

But oh ! no bribe could pay your tribe for 
one like you, my true love ! 

Blessings be on Connaughtl that's the 

place for sport and raking ! 
Blessings too, my love, on you, a- sleeping 

and a- waking ! 
I'd have met you, dearest Ellen, when the 

sun went under 
But, woe ! the flooding Shannon broke 

across my path in thunder ! 

Ellen, I'd give all the deer in Limerick's 

parks and arbors. 
Aye, and all the ships that rode last year 

in Munster's harbors, 
Could I blot from time the hour I first 

became your lover, 
For, oh ! you've given my heart a wound 

it never can recover 1 

Would to God that in the sod my corpse 

to-night were lying, 
And the wild birds wheeling o'er it, and 

the winds a-sighing, 
Since your cruel mother and your kindred 

choose to sever 
Two hearts that love would blend in one 

forever and forever ! 



GERALD GRIFFIN. 

1803 — 1840, 
Gerald Griffin was born in Limerick, 
Ireland, in 1803, and began his literary 
career as a reporter for the daily press of 
London. In 1838 he joined the Christian 
brotherhoo 1, of Cork. His novel, "The 
Collegians," says the Dublin University 
Magazine, " must live." Griffin wrote 
many novels, a play entitled "Gysippus: 
A Tragedy," and various poems, which 
fill a fairly large volume. He died in 
Cork, in 1840. 



A PLACE IN THY MEMORY. 
I. 
A place in thy memory, dearest, 
Is all that 1, claim ; 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



49 



To pause and look back when thou hearest 

The sound of my name. 
Another may woo thee, nearer, 

Another may win and wear ; 
I caro not though he be dearer. 

If I am remembered there. 

II. 

Remember me — not as a lover 

Whose hope was cross'd, 
Wliose bosom can never recover 

The light it has lost — 
As the young bride remembers the mother 

She loves, though she never may see — 
As a sister remembers a brother, 

0, dearest I remember me. 

m. 

Could I be thy true lover, dearest, 

Could'st tliou smile on me, 
I would be the fondest and nearest 

That ever loved thee I 
But a cloud on my pathway is glooming, 

That never must burst upon thine. 
And Heaven, that made thee all bloom- 

Ne'er made thee to wither on mine. 

IV. 
Remember me, then ! — ! remember. 

My calm, light love ; 
Though bleak as the blasts of November 

My life may prove. 
That life will, though lonely, be sweet. 

If its brightest enjoyment should be 
A smile and kind word when we meet, 

And a place in thy memory. 



THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 

She once was a lady of honor and wealth, 
Bright glowed on her features the roses 

of health; 
Her vesture was blended of silk and of 

gold. 
And her motion shook perfume from 

every fold: 
Joy reveled around her— love shone at her 

side. 
And gay was her smile, as the glance of 

a bride; 



And light was her step in the mirth-sound- 
ing hall 

When she heard of the daughters of Vin- 
cent de Paul. 

She felt, in her spirit, the summons of 

grace. 
That called her to live for the suffering 

race; 
And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of 

home, 
Rose quickly, like Mary, and answered, 

" I come." 
She put from her person the trappings of 

pride. 
And passed from Her home, with the joy 

of a bride, 
Nor wept at the threshold, as onwards 

she moved — 
For her heart was on fire in the cause it 

approved. 

Lost ever to fashion— to vanity lost, 
That beauty that once was the song and 

the toast- 
No more in the ball-room that figure we 

meet. 
But gliding at dusk to the wretch's re- 
treat. 
Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding 

name. 
For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame; 
Forgot are the claims of her riches and 

birth, 
For she barters for heaven the glory of 
earth. 

Those feet, that to music could gracefully 
move, 

Now bear her alone on the mission of 
love; 

Those hands that once dangled the per- 
fume and gem. 

Are tending the helpless, or lifted for 
them; 

That voice that once echoed the song of 
the vain. 

Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain; 

And the hair that was shining with dia- 
mond and pearl, 

Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl. 



60 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRART 



Her down-bed a pallet— her trinkets a 
bead, 

Her lustre— one taper that serves her to 
read; 

Her sculpture- the crucifix nailed by her 
bed; 

Her paintings one print of the thorn- 
crowned head; 

Her cushion — the pavement that wearies 
her knees; 

Her music the psalm, or the siyh of dis- 
ease; 

The delicate lady hves mortified there. 

And the feast is forsaken for fasting and 
prayer. 

Yet not to the service of heart and of mind, 

Are the cares of that heaven-minded vir- 
gin confined. 

Like Him whom she loves, to the man- 
sions of grief 

She hastes with the tidings of joy and re- 
lief. 

She strengthens the weary— she comforts 
the weak. 

And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick ; 

Where want and affliction on mortals at- 
tend, 

The Sister of Charity tJiere is a friend. 

Unshrinking where Pestilence scatters his 

breath, 
Like an angel she moves, "mid the vapor 

of death; 
Where rings the loud musket, and flashes 

the sword, 
Unfearing she walks, for she follows the 

Lord. 
How sweetly she bends o'er each plague- 
tainted face 
With looks that are lighted with holiest 

grace; 
How kindly she dresses each suffering 

limb. 
For she sees in the wounded the image of 

Him. 

Behold her, ye worldly ! behold her, ye 

vain ! 
Who shrink from the pathway of virtue 

and pain; 



Who yield up to pleasure your nights and 
your days, 

Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise. 

Ye lazy philosophers—self-seeking men, — 

Ye fireside phUanthropists, great at the 
pen, 

How stands in the balance your eloquence 
weighed 

With the life and the deeds of that high- 
born maid? 

THE CHOICE OF FRIENDS. 
League not with him in friendship's tie. 

Whose selfish soul is bent on pleasure; 
For he from joy to joy will fly. 

As changes fancy's fickle measure. 
Not his the faith, whose bond we see, 

With lapse of years remaining stronger; 
Nor will he then be true to thee. 

When thou can'st serve nis aim no 
longer. 

Him, too, avoid whose grov'lllng love 

In earthly end alone is cent'red, 
Within whose heart, a thought above 

Life's comn;on cares, has seldom en- 
ter' d. 
Trust not to him thy bosom's weal, 

A painted love alone revealing; 
The show, witliout the lasting zeal; 

The hollow voice, without the feeling. 

VERY REVEREND EDWARD 
PURCELL. 

1808— 1881. 
Father Purcell was born in Mallow, 
County Cork, Ireland. At fourteen years 
of age he came to this country. He was 
ordained in 1840, and for many years was 
an assistant of his brother. Archbishop 
Purcell, in Cincinnati. He died January 
23, 1881. He was for many years editor 
of the Catholic Telegraph. 



THE AUTUMN LEAF. 

The Summer sun has passed away, and 

o'er the mountain's head 
A diadem of golden hue is beautifully 

spread; 



OF (WTHOLIC POETS. 



51 



A ricli and varied mass of leaves, where 

ev'ry brilliant tinge, 
In mingled shade around the pines is 

shining like a fringe. 

But hark ! the wailing wind is heard, it 

sweeps in murmurs by, 
A thousand rainbow colorVI leaves 'go 

floating tlirough the sky. 
They bid the setting sun farewell, whilst 

chill'd with evening breath. 
They fall around the parent tree, still 

beautiful in death. 

The fallen leaf, the fallen leaf, what hand 

can now restore, 
The life that fill'd its slender veins, the 

blood it knew before; 
Its beauty all has passed away, its lonely 

hour is near, 
And man, who blessed its Summer 

shade, forgets that it was dear. 

'Tis thus that many a youthful heart has 

felt the tempest lower. 
And thought that friends would ne'er 

fall off in youth's rejoicing hour; 
But, when misfortune came to blight, and 

hope witlidrew its ray, 
The hand that should have wiped the 

tear, was coldly turned away. 

A solemn silence lulls the scene, the an- 
cient woods are hushed; 

The leaves have filled the rocky cleft, 
where late the fountain gushed; 

Against the clear, cold, azure sky, the 
wither'd boughs appear. 

Where, mournfully, some lingering lear 
hangs desolate and sere. 

The color'd web which Autumn weaves, 

of purple and of gold, 
Her loom of blue and crimson tints 

along the vale is roli'd; 
Ah ! who will give us back the sun, the 

fountain, and the shade. 
The singing birds that flutter'd there, 

the minstrel of the glade. 

Alas, the leaf, which on the branch in ver- 
dant beauty hung. 



Its Summer hour of fragrance o'er, 
upon the ground is flung; 

It, never more, refreshed with dew, the 
radiant sun shall see. 

Nor, with its kindred bloom again upon 
their forest tree. 

The wailing wind is heard at eve, its re- 
quiem to wail. 

There, with its brethren of the glen, it 
sleeps amid the vale ; 

And birds that love the genial sun in fare- 
well numbers sing. 

The Autumn leaf, the yellow leaf, the 
nursling of the Spring. 

But Spring shall come and ev'ry flower, 

again be lifted up. 
The tulip, like a pearl, shall keep the 

dewdrop in her cup; 
Around the cottage home shall bloom the 

bluebell and the rose, 
And trees that dropped in Winter winds, 

a thousand buds disclose. 

Ah ! thus when Death shall close the 

scene, may Heaven's eternal Spring, 
Around the soul her fadeless wreaths, 

her sacred roses fling; 
And, when she looks in triumph back, 

will not her world of bliss 
Seem happier, for the gloom that rests 

on all that's found in this. 

DENIS FLORENCE M'CARTHY. 

1810 . 

Denis Florence M'Carthy was born in 
Ireland, in 1810, of an ancient family, and 
takes rank with the best living poets and 
most elegant writers. He has enriched 
literature with many fine translations, 
especially from Calderon. He has been, 
for many years. Professor of Poetry in the 
Catholic University of Ireland. 



WAITING FOR THE MAY. 
Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 
Waiting for the May— ■ 
Waiting for the pleasant rambles. 
Where the fragrant hawthorn brami les, 



52 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



With the woodbine alternating, 

Scent the dewy way. 
Ah 1 my heart is weary waiting, 

Waiting for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is siclc with longing. 
Longing for the May — 
Longing to escape from study 
To ttie fair young face and ruddy, 
And the thousand charms belonging 

To the Summer's day. 
Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, 
Longing for the May. 

Ah 1 my heart is sore with sighing, 
Sighing for the May- 
Sighing for their sure returning 
When the Summer beams are burning, 
Hopes and flowers that dead or dying 

All tlie Winter lay. 
Ah ! my lieart is sore with sighing, 
Sighing for the May. 

Ah 1 my heart is pained with throbbing. 
Throbbing for the May- 
Throbbing for the sea-side billows, 
Or the water wooing willows, 
Where in laughing and in sobbing 

Glide the streams away. 
Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing. 
Throbbing for the May. 

Waiting, sad, dejected, weary. 
Waiting for the May. 
Spring goes by with wasted warnings- 
Moonlit eveninsts, sunbright mornings- 
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary 

Life still ebbs away — 

Man is ever weary, weary, 

Waiting for the May I 



THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND. 

The Pillar Towers of L'eland, how wou- 
drously they stand 

By the lakes and rushing rivers, through 
the valleys of our land ; 

In mystic file, throughout the isle, they 
lift their heads sublime— 

These gray old pillar temples ! these con- 
querors of time 1 



Beside these old gray pillars, how perish 

ing and weak 
The Roman's arch of triumph, and the 

temple of the Greek, 
And the gold domes of Byzantium, and 

the pointed Gothic spires- 
All are gone, one by one, but the temples 

of our sir*^s. 

The column, with its capital; is level with 
the dust, 

And the proud halls of the mighty, and 
the calm homes of the just ; 

For the proudest wurks of men, as cer- 
tainly, but slower. 

Pass like the grass at the sharp scythe of 
the mower. 

But the grass grows again, when in 

majesty and mirth, 
On the wing of the Spring, comes the 

goddess of the earth ; 
But for man, in this worKl, no spring-tide 

e'er returns 
To the labors of his hands or the ashes of 

his urns ! 

Two favorites hath Time— the pyramids 

of Nile, 
And the old mystic temples of our own 

dear isle — 
As the breeze o'er the seas, where the 

halcyon has its nest, 
Thus time o'er Egypt's tombs and the 

temples of the West ! 

The names of their founders have van- 

isli'd in the gloom. 
Like tne dry branch in the fire, or the 

body in the tomb ; 
But to-day, in the ray, their shadows still 

they cast, 
Tliese temples of forgotten gods— these 

relics of the past ! 

Around these walls have wandered the 

Briton and the Dane — 
The captives of Armorlca, the cavaliers 

of Spain— 
Pnoeuician and Milesian, and the pliin- 

d'ring Norman peers— 
And the swordsmen of brave Brian, and 

the chiefs of later years. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



53 



How many different rites have these gray 

old temples known ! 
To the mind what dreams are written in 

these chronicles of stone ! 
What terror ai^d what error, what gleams 

of love and truth, 
Have flash'd from these walls since the 

world was in its youth I 

Here blazed the sacred fire— and, when 

the sun was gone. 
As a star from afar to the traveler It 

shone ; 
And the warm blood of the victim have 

these gray old temples drunk, 
And the death song of the Druid, and 

the matin of the Monk. 

Here was placed the holy chalice that 

held the sacred wine, 
And the gold cross from the altar, and 

the relics fiom the shrine, 
A.nd the mitre shining brighter, with its 

diamonds, than the East, 
And the crozier of the Pontiff, and the 

vestments of the Priest. 

Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out 

the vesper bell- 
Where the fugitive found shelter, became 

the hermit's cell ; 
And hope hung out its symbol to the 

innocent and good. 
For the cross o'er the moss of the pointed 

summit stood. 

There may it stand for ever, while this 
symbol doth impart 

To the mind one glorious vision, or one 
proud throb to the heart ; 

While the breas; needeth rest may these 
gray old temples last. 

Bright prophets of the future, as preach- 
ers of the past ! 



A SHAMROCK FROM THE IRISH 

SHORE. 

(On Receiving a Shamrock in a Letter 

FROM Ireland.) 

O Postman ! speed thy tardy gait- 
Go quicker round from door to door; 



For thee I watch, for thee I wait. 
Like many a weary wanderer more. 

Thou briiigest news of bale and bliss- 
Some life begun, some life well o'er. 

He stops— he rings!- Oh Heaven! what's 
this? 
A shamrock from the Irish shore I 

Dear emblem of my native land, 

My fresh fond words kept fresh and 
green; 
The pressure of an unfelt hand — 

The kisses of a lip unseen; 
A tl rob from my dear mother's heart — 

My father's smile revived once more — 
Oil, youth! oh, lovel oh, hope! thou art. 

Sweet shamrock, from the Irish shore! 

Enchanter, with my wand of power. 

Thou mak'st the past be present still ; 
The emerald lawn — the lime-leaved 
bovver — 

Tlie circling shore— the sunlit hill ; 
The grass, in Winter's wint'riest hours, 

By dewy daisies dimpled o'er, 
Half hiding, 'neath their trembling 
flowers, 

The shamrock of the Irish shore 1 

And thus, where'er my footsteps strayed, 

By queenly Florence, kingly Rome— 
By Padua's long and lone arcade— 

By Iscliia's fires and Adria's foam- 
By Spezzia's fatal waves, that kissed 

My poet sailing calmly o'er; 
By all, by each, I mourned and missed 

The Shamrock of the Irish shore ! 

I saw the palm-tree stand aloof, 

Irresolute 'twixt the sand and sea; 
I saw upon the trellised roof 

Outspread the wine that was to be; 
A giant-flowered and glorious tree, 

I saw the tall magnolia soar; 
But there, even there, I longed for thee, 

Poor Shamrock of the Irish shore I 

Now on the ramparts of Boulogne, 
As lately by the loi elj Ranee, 

At evening, as I watched the sun, 
I look I I dream I Can this be France? 



54 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



Not Albion's cliffs, Iiow near they be, 
He seems to love to linger o'er; 

But gilds, by a remoter sea, 
The Shamroclj of the Irish shore ! 

I'm with him in that wholesome clime— 

Tliat fruitful soil, that verdurous sod- 
Where hearts unstained by vulgar crime 

Have still a simple faith In God. 
Hearts that in pleasure and in pain, 

The more tliey're trod rebound tlie more, 
Like thee, when wet with heaven's own 
rain, 

Shamrock of tlie Irisii shore. 

Memorial of my native land. 

True emblem of my land and race; 
Thy small and tender leaves expand, 

But only in thy native place; 
Thou needest for tliyself and seed 

Soft dews around, kind sunshine o'er; 
Transplanted thou'rt tlie merest weed. 

O Shamrock of the Irish shore ! 

Here on the tawny fields of France, 

Or in the rank, red English clay. 
Thou showest a stronger form, perchance, 

A bolder front thou may'st display. 
More able to resist the scythe 

That cut so keen, so sharp before; 
But then thou art no more the blithe, 

Bright Shamrock of the Irish shore ! 

Ah me ! to think thy scorns, thy slights. 

Thy trampled tears, thy nameless grave 
On Fredricksburg's ensanguined heights, 

Or by Potomac's purple wave ! 
Ah me ! to think that power malign 

Thus turns thy sweet, green sap to gore; 
And what calm rapture might be thine, 

Sweet Shamrock of the Irish shore I 

Struggling, and yet for strife unmeet. 

True type of trustful love thou art; 
Thou liest the whole year at my feet, 

To live but one day at, my heart. 
One day of festal pride to lie 

Upon the loved one's heart— what more? 
Upon the loved one's heart to die, 

Shamrock of the Irish shore I 

And shall I not return thy love? 
And shall thou not, as thou shouldst, be 



Placed on thy son's proud heart, above 
The red rose or the fieur-de-lis? 

Yes, from these heights the waters beat; 
I vow to press thy cheek once more, 

And lie forever at tly feet, 
Shamrock of the Irish shore. 



JUDGE ARRINGTON. 

1810-1867. 

Alfred W. Arrington was born in Ire 
dell County, North Carolina, September 
17, 1810, and died in Chicago, December 
31, 1867. He became eminent as a lawyer, 
and wrote some very beautiful poems, 
nearly all of which were written after his 
fiftieth year. Judge Arrington was a con- 
vert to the Catholic faith. Tiie following 
lines are full of poetical beauty : 

O FOR THE WINGS OF THE WIND. 

for the wings of the wind to wander 
Farther than the sun in the zenith 
shines. 
Over the peaks of the paradise yonder. 
Richer in gems than a million mines ! 
Up where the maidenly moon is beaming. 
The face of a snow-white angel seeming. 
Or queen of the sinless angels dreaming, — 
Love by the light of her starry shrines. 

for the speed of a spirit's pinions. 
Soaring like thought from a burninj^' 
brain; 
Soaring from sorrow in sin's dominions, 
Realms where the pitiless passions 
reign ! 
0, but to flee from the fiend that chases 
Hope to the home of the charnel places. 
Lurid with lights of the faded faces, 
Beauty that never shall bloom again. 

Why should I shiver beside the dim river > 
Which the feet of Christ have coasted 
before? 
For the angel of death alone can deliver 
Grief-laden souls that are yearning to 
soar. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



66 



for the faith all my darkness to brighten; 

O for the faith all the demons to frighten; 

for tlie love that all terror can lighten— 

Mary, sweet Mother, I ask for no more! 

REV. ADRIAN ROUQUETTE. 

1813 . 

Bev. A Rouquette was born in New 
Orleans, February 26, 1813. He received 
his ecclesiastical education in tiiis country 
and in France. He was ordained in 1845, 
and has since passed his time as a mis- 
sionary to the Indians. He has published 
several volumes of prose and verse. 



THE WILD LILY AND PASSION- 
FLOWER. 

Sweet flower of light, 
The queen of solitude, 

The image bright 
Of grace-born maidenhood. 

Thou risest tall 
Midst struggling weeds that dro^xp: 

Thy lieges all, 
They humbly bow and stoop. 

Dark color'd flower. 
How solemn, awful, sad I— 

I feel thy power, 
king, in purple clad 1 

With head recline, 
Thou art the emblem dew 

Of woes divine; 
The flower I most revere I 

The lily white, 
The purple passion-flower. 

Mount Thabor bright, 
The gloomy OUve-bower. 

Such is our life,— 
Alternate joys and woes, 

Short peace, long strife. 
Few friends and many foes I 

My friend, away 
All wailings here below: 

The royal way 
To realms above is woel 



To suffer much 
Has been the fate of saints; 

Our fate is such :— 
Away, away all plaints I 

THE REV. FREDERICK WILL- 
IAM FABER. 

1814— 1864. 
Frederick William Faber was born in 
Yorkshire, England, June 28, 1814, and 
was one of the most illustrious of English 
converts to Catholicity. He was for many 
years a minister of the Cliurch of En- 
gland, and after his conversion, in con- 
junction with other eminent converts, 
founded the London Oratory of St. Philip 
Nerl. His works are distinguished for 
their great purity and beauty of senti- 
ment. 



PARADISE. 
0, Paradise ! 0, paradise I 

Who doth not crave for rest ? 
Who would not seek the happy land 

Where they that loved are blest ? 
Where loyal hearts and true 

Stand ever in the light, 
All rapture through and through, 

In God's most holy sight ? 

0, Paradise ! O, Paradise ! 

The world is growing old ; 
Who would not be at rest and free 

Where love is never cold. 
Where loyal hearts and true 

Stand ever in the light, 
All rapture through and through, 

In God's most holy sight? 

0, Paradise 1 0, Paradise ! 

Wherefore doth death delay- 
Bright death that is the welcome dawn 

Of our eternal day, 
Where loyal hearts and true 

Stand ever in the light. 
All rapture througli and through. 

In God's most holy sight ? 

0, Paradise ! 0, Paradise I 
'lis weary waiting here ; 



56 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



I long to be where Jesus is— 
To feel, to see Him near, 

VVIiere loyal hearts and true 
Stand ever in the light. 

All rapture through and tlirough, 
In God's most holy sight. 

0, Paradise ! 0, Paradise I 

I want to sin no more ; 
I want to be as pure on earth 

As on thy spotless shore, 
Wliere loyal hearts and true 

Stand ever in the light, 
All rapture through and through, 

In God's most holy sight. 

0, Paradise ! 0, Paradise I 

I grf'atly long to see 
The special place my dearest Lord 

Is destining for me, 
Wliere loyal hearts and true 

Stand ever in the light, 
All rapture through and through, 

In God's most holy sight. 

O, Paradise ! 0, Paradise I 

I feel 'twill not be long- 
Patience ! I almost think I hear 

Faint fragments of thy song, 
Where loyal hearts and true 

Stand ever in the light. 
All rapture through and through. 

In God's most holy sight. 



IF THOU COULDST BE A BIRD. 

If thou couldst be a bird, what bird 

wonldst thou be? 
A frolicsome gull on the billowy sea, 
Screaming and wailing when stormy 

winds rave. 
Or anchor'd, wiiite thing I on the merry 

green wave ? 

Or an eagle aloft in the blue ether dwell- 
ing, 

Free of the caves of the hoary Helvellyn, 

Who is up in the sunshine when we are 
in shower, 

And could reach our loved ocean in less 
than an hour ? 



Or a heron that haunts the Wallachian 
edge 

Of the barbarous Danube, 'mid forests of 
sedge. 

And hears the rude waters through 
dreary swamps flowing, 

And the cry of the wild swans and buffa- 
loes lowing ? 

Or a stork on a mosque's broken pillar in 

peace. 
By some famous old stream in the bright 

land of Greece— 
A sweet-manner'd houseiiolder ! waiving 

bis state. 
Now and then, in some kind little toil for 

his mate ? 

Or a murmuring dove at Stamboul, buried 
deep 

In the long cypress woods where the in- 
fidels sleep ; 

Whose leaf-muffljd voice is the soul of 
the seas. 

That hath pass'd from the Bosphorus into 
the trees ? 

Or a heath-bird, that lies on the Cheviot 

moor. 
Where the wet, shining earth is as bare 

as the floor ; 
Who mutters glad sounds, though his 

joys are but few- 
Yellow moon, windy sunshine, and skies 

cold and blue ? 

Or if thy man's heart worketh in thee at 

all, 
Perchance thou wouldst dwell by some 

bold baron's hall, 
A black, glossy rook, working early and 

late, 
Like a laboring man on the baron's 

estate ? 

Or a linnet who builds in the close haw- 
thorn bough, 

Where her small, frighten'd eyes may be 
seen looking through ; 

Who heeds not, fond mother I the oxlips 
that shine 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



57 



On the hedge banks beneath, or the 
glazed celandine ? 

Or a swallow that flieth the sunny world 
over, 

The true home of Spring and Spring- 
flowers to discover ; 

Who, go where he will, takes away on his 
wings 

Good words from mankind for the bright 
thoughts he brings ? 

But what ! can these pictures of strange 

winged mirth 
Make the child to forget that slie walks 

on the earth ? 
Dost thou feel at thy sides as though 

wings were to start 
From some place wliere they lie folded 

up in thy heart ? 

Tlien love the green things in thy first 

simple youth. 
The beasts, birds and fishes, with heart 

and in truth, 
And fancy shall pay thee thy love back in 

skill ; 
Thou shalt be all the birds of the air at 

thy will ! 



THE CHERWELL WATER LILY. 

How often doth a wild flower bring 
Fancies and thoughts that seem to spring 

From inmost depths of feehng ! 
Nay, often they have power to bless 
With their uncultured lovehness, 
And far into the aching breast 
There goes a heavenly thought of rest 

Witii their soft influence stealing. 
How oflen, too, can ye unlock, 
Dear wild flowers, with a gentle shock. 

Tile wells of holy tears ! 
While somewhat of a Christian light 
Breaks sweetly on the mourner's sight, 

To calm unquiet fears ! 
Ah ! snrely such strange power is given 
To lowly flowers like dew from heaven; 
For lessons oft by them are brought. 
Deeper than mortal sage hath taught, 
Lessons of wisdom pure, that rise 
From some clear fountains in the skies. 



Fairest of Flora's lovely daughters 
That bloom by siilly-running waters, 
Fair lily I thou a type must be 
Of virgin love and purity I 
Fragrant thou art as any flower 
That decks a lady's garden-bower. 
But he who would thy sweetness know, 
Must stoop and bend his loving brow 
To catch thy scent, so faint and rare, 
Scarce breathed upon the Summer air. 
And all thy motions, too, how free, 
And yet how fraught with sympathy ! 
So pale thy tint, so meek thy gleam. 
Shed on thy kindly father-stream ! 
StiJI, as he swayeth to and fro, 

How true in all thy goings. 
As if thy very soul did know 

The secrets of his flowings. 

And then that heart of living gold, 

Which thou dost modestly infold. 

And screen from man's too searching 

view. 
Within thy robe of snowy hue ! 
To careless man thou seem'st to roam 

Abroad upon the river. 
In aU thy movements chain'd to home, 

Fast-rooted there forever: 
Link'd by a holy, hidden tie, 
Too subtle for a mortal eye 
Nor riveted by mortal art. 
Deep down within thy father's heart 

Emblem in truth thou art to me 
Of all a daughter ought to be I 
How shall I liken thee, sweet flower. 
That other men may feel thy power. 
May seek thee on some lovely night. 
And say how strong, how chaste the 
night, , 

The tie of lilial duty. 
How graceful, too, and angel-bright, 

The pride of lowly beauty ! 
Thou sittest on the varying tide 
As if thy spirit did preside. 
With a becoming, queenly grace. 
As mistress of this lonely place; 
A quiet magic hast thou now 
To smooth the river's rufiled brow. 

And calm his rippling water. 



58 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



And yet, so delicate and airy. 
Thou art to him a very fairy, 
A widow'd father's only daughter. 



LADY GEORGIANA FULLER- 
TON. 

1814 . 

Lady Georgiana Fullerton was born in 
1814, and is a daughter of Earl Granville, 
and the wife of Captain Alexander Ful- 
lerton. She has been successful as a nov- 
elist, and has published a volume of 
poems. She is a convert to the Catholic 
faith. 



A FINE DAY IN SUMMER. 

A day when Summer supersedes the 

Spring, 
And June's innumerable roses fling 
Their perfumed odors o'er the passing 

breeze 
That sweeps, enamored, o'er the fairy 

trees; 
When floods of light intoxicate the eye. 
When earth expands beneath a cloudless 

sky, 
And every waving branch and leafy bower 
Bursts into song,and blossoms into flower. 



A FAREWELL. 
I leave tbee friendless in a world of tears, 
I leave thee helpless 'midst a host of fears; 
The morning promise of thy young days 

fled, 
A withering sorrow bowing down thy 

head. 
I know thee well; betwixt thee and the 

past 
A deep, irrevocable grief is cast ; 
Life can no more have common joys for 

thee ; 
Great as thy trial, must thy courage be. 
Despondency will cloud, and grief assail 
Thy faltering heart ; its strength will seem 

to fail; 
But God will help thee. Onward thou 

wilt go, 



Bearing thy own, and cheering others' 
woe; 

Treading the path where guidmg angels 
lead. 

And scattering on thy way the priceless 
seed. 

Which, sown in tears, is harvested in joy. 

Aim at high virtue; in thy soul destroy 

All but the sacred impulses that give 

Grace upon earth an angel's life to live. 

Seek for naught else: in this surrender 
lies 

Peace without end; and when those tempt- 
ing sighs 

Cease to convulse thy over-burthened 
breast. 

When thy dear eyes from tears begin to 
rest. 

Then tenderly and gladly call to mind 

How thy poor father on this day re- 
signed 

All meaner and more earthly hopes for 
thee 

Than the blest freedom of those God 
makes free. 



W. H. 0. HOSMER. 

1814 — 1877. 
William Henry Cuyerl Hosnier was 
born in Avon, N. Y., in 1814, and died in 
his native place May 23, 1877. He was a 
graduate of Geneva College, but such was 
his reputation as a poet in those early 
years, that before he obtained his degree 
of A. M. from his own college, the honor- 
ary degree was conferred upon him by 
Hamilton College and the University of 
Vermont. He published several volumes 
of prose and verse. He was converted to 
the Catholic faith some years before his 
death. 



THE OLD SONG. 

Sing on! I love that olden lay, 

Though mournful are the notes and 
wild. 
It drives the haunting fiend away; 

It thrilled me when a child. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS 59 


Long buried gold the past reveals; 


The sentiment is gone that made 


Charmed by the magic of that strain, 


Love's golden round of faith divine. 


My weary lieart refreshment feels, 


IV. 


And I am young again. 


Though fashioned not witli cunning art, 


Sing on! The land of shadows now 


And plain some gold, engaeement ring. 


Hath raised ils curtain, dark and dim. 


Worn by the lady of his heart, 


Back comes my sire with furrowed brow, 


It is a precious, priceless tiling. 


That smile belongs to him. 


V. 


Each old familiar word invokes 


The glittering circlet is profaned 


The phantoms of the pictured past. 


When on another's finger drawn. 


And, sighing tiirough ancestral oaks, 


And though, to outward view, unstained. 


I hear the midnight blast. 


Its hallowed purity is gone. 


Sing on! For, borne on music's tide, 


VL 


My soul floats back to other days; 


Thy costly, sullied gift I spurn. 


From dust rise up the true and tried. 


For naught from spot tiie gold can free. 


To greet my yearning gaze; 


And blame me not that I return 


And she, meek violet that grew 


The desecrated thing to thee. 


In rosy boyhood's "Eden Lost," 
Springs up, as if her eyes of blue 






Had never known the frost. 


YEH-SA-GO-WA.* 


Sing on! Sing on! Entranced I hear. 


I. 


While bloom once more earth's per- 


A son-^jYeh-sa-go-wa! I measure for thee. 


ished flowers; 


Though day may not dawn on the night 


For mother warbled in my ear 


of my grief; 


That song in other hours; 


Oh! why art thou haughty and cruel to 


And when the sweet refrain is breathed. 


me— 


Her gentle spirit hovers nigh- 


Why break, witii thy coldness, the heart 


Fond arms are round the wanderer 


of a chief ? 


wreathed. 


By fate was I doomed a poor exile to 


Kind voices make reply. 


roam 




Far, far from the valley so dear to me 
still: - 
By fraud was I robbed of my sweet cot- 


RETURN OF AN ENGAGEMENT 


RING. 


tage-home. 


I. 


And the foot of the stranger is crossing 


The lover, with a knightly soul, 


its sill. 


Deems sacred every gift bestowed 


II. 


On her who, with a queen's control. 


The wild "Forest E:igle" is tame enough 


Holds, in his constant heart, abode. 


now. 


II. 


Heart-broken by proud Yeh-sa-g5 wa's 


Its value is as worthless sand. 


disdain. 


A cloud is on its brilliance thrown. 


And dark was the seal that despair on his 


If ever, on another's hand. 


brow 


Tiiat ring of plighted faith has shone. 


*Wlien a Soneca lover Is wooing his mistress, 




he can bestow on the object of ins attacliinent 


IIL 


no sweeter term of endearment than " Yeh-sa- 


No light can dissipate the shade 


g6-wa." 
It implies that she Is peerless— the loveliest 


Attaching to its metal fine; 


of her sex In soul and person. 



I 



60 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



Impressed, when he knew that he loved 
her in vain. 
His hearth-stone is desolate;— last of his 
race- 
By the grave-mounds of tribesmen he 
lingers alone ; 
No more, with a smile on her beautiful 
face. 
She looks on the chief, once her loved, 
and her own! 

III. 
How long with the fever of passion must 
burn 
A heart that is fondly and faithfully 
thiue! 
How long must I meet with a frigid re- 
turn 
For love as intense and devoted as mine! 
Dark shadows have over thy lover been 
cast, 
And faith.unto thee has been plighted 
in vain; 
A song, Teh sa-g6-wa! it may be my last, 
I weave in the night of my sorrow and 
pain. 



AUBREY DE VERE. 

1814 . 

Aubrey de Vere is the third son of the 
late Sir Aubrey de Vere, Bart., and was 
born in 1814, at Curragh Cliase, Co. 
Limerick, Ireland. He was educated at 
Trinity College, Dublin. He became a 
Catholic in 1851, and his faith has been 
the chief source of his poetical inspira- 
tion. Mr. De Vere is a disciple and a 
warm admirer of Wordsworth. Though 
liis verse has not always musical smooth- 
ness, it always glows with lofty purpose. 
He has been a very prolific writer. 



TO MY LADY, SINGING. 

She whom this heart must ever hold most 

dear 
(This heart in happy bondage held so 

long), 
Began to sing. At first a gentle fear 



Eosied her countenance,— for she is 

young, 
And he wbo loves her most of ail was 

near ; 
But when at last her voice grew full and 

strong, 
0, from their ambush sweet, bow rich 

and clear 
Bubbled the notes abroad — a rapturous 

throng ! 
Her little bands were sometimes flung 

apart. 
And sometimes palm to palm together 

prest. 
Whilst wave-hke blushes, rising from her 

breast, 
Kept time with that aerial melody. 
As music to the sight !— I, standing nigh. 
Received the falling fountain in my heart. 



SONG. 

Sing the old song, amid the sounds dis- 
persing 
That burden, treasured in your hearts 
too long ; 
' Sing it with voice low-breathed, but 

never name her ; 
She will not hear you, in her turrets 
nursing 
High thoughts— too high to mate with 
mortal song; — 
Bend o'er her, gentle heaven, but do 
not claim her. 

In twilight caves and secret lonehnesses, 
She shades the bloom of her unearthly 
days ; 
The forest winds alone approach to 
woo her ; 
Far off we catch the dark gleam of her 
tresses. 
And wild birds haunt the wood-walks 
where she strays, 
Intelligible music warbling to her. 

That spirit charged to follow and defend 
her, 
He also, doubtless, suffers this love- 
pain ; 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



61 



And she, perhaps, is sad, hearing his 
sighing. 
And yet, that face is not so sad as tender ; 
Like some sweet singer's, when her 
sweetest strain, 
From the heaved heart, is gradually 
dying. 



SONNET. 
Sad is our youth, for it is ever going. 

Crumbling away beneath our very feet; 
Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing. 

In current unperceived, because so fleet; 
Sad are our hopes, for tliey were sweet in 
sowing— 
But tares, self-sown, have overtopped 
the wheat ; 
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in 
blowing — 
And still, oh I still, their dying breath is 
sweet ; 
And sweet is youth, although it hath be- 
reft us 
Of that which made our childhood 
sweeter still ; 
Aud sweet is middle age, for it has left us 

A nearer good to cure an older ill ; 
And sweet are all things, wlien we learn 

To prize them, 
Not for their sake, but His who grants 
them or denies them I 



JEDEDIAH VINCENT HUNT- 
INGTON. 

1815—1862. 
Dr. Huntington was born in New York 
in 18! 5. and graduated at Yale College. 
He was for some years a physician, and 
subsequently a minister ol the Protestant 
Episcopal Church. He entered the Cath- 
olic communion in 18i9. He wrote sev- 
eral novels, and published a volume of 
poems. His death occurred in 1862. 



The front of shadow-chasing morn 1 
And, ere the day slar was re-born, 
With borrow'd but auspicious Hght, 
Gladden'd the night long watcher's sigh; ! 

Fair herald of a brighter sun, 

And pledge of Heaven's own day begun, 

Wlien th' ancient world's long night was 

o'er, 
So shone, above death's dreaded shore, 
And life's now ever-brightening sea, 
The lowly Maid of Galilee. 

Lost now in His effulgent ray, 
Bathed in the brightness of His day, 
Morning Star ! still sweetly shine 
Through that dim night which yet is 

mine; 
Precede for me His dawning light, 
Who only puts all shades to flight 1 

CHAKLES GAVAN DUFFY. 

1816 . 

Charles Gavn Duffy was born in Ire- 
land in 1816, and has held various offices 
under the British government. He has 
recently published a historical work called 
"Young Ireland " His poeius are full of 
thought and feeling. 



STELLA MATUTINA, ORA PRO NOBIS. 

Gleaming o'er mountain, coast and wave. 
What splendor It, foretokening, gave 



THE Voice OF LABOR. 

A CHANT OF THE CITY MEETINGS I.\ IRELAND IN 
1849. 

Ye who despoil the sons of toil, saw ye 

this sight to-day. 
When stalwart trade, in long brigade, be- 
yond a king's array, 
Marched in the blessed light of heaven, 

beneath the open sky. 
Strong in the might of sacred right, 

than none dare ask them why ? 
These are the slaves, the needy knaves, 

ye spit upon with scorn— 
The spawn of < arth, of nameless birth, 

and basely bred as born : 
Ye know, ye soft and silken lords, \^ere 

we the thing ye say. 
Your broad domains, your cofiferel gains, 

your lives were ours to-day. 



62 



THE HOUSEHOLD LlBRARl 



Measure thai rank from flan ; to flank ; 

'tis fifty thousand strong ; 
And mark you here, in front and rear, 

b igades a . deep and long ; 
And know that never blade of foe, or 

Arran's deadly breeze, 
Tried by assay of storm or fray, more 

dauntless hearts than these ; 
The sinewy Smith, little he recks of his 

own child— the sword, 
The men of gear, think you they fear 

tJieir handiwork— a lord ? 
And undismayed, yon sons of trade miglit 

see the battle's front. 
Who bravely bore, nor bowed before the 

deadlier face of want. 

What lack we here of sliow or form, that 
lure your slaves to death ? 

Not serried bands, nor sinev/y hands, nor 
music's martial breatli ; 

And if we broke the bitter joke our sup- 
pliant race endure, 

No robbers we— but chivalry— the Army 
of the Poor. 

Shame on ye now, ye lordly crew, tliat 
do your betters wrong— 

We are no base and braggart mob, but 
merciful and strong. 

Your henchmen vain, your vassal train, 
would fly our first defiance ; 

In us— in our strong, tranquil breasts- 
abides your sole reliance. 

Aye ! keep them all, castle and hall, coffers 

and costly jewels- 
Keep your vile gain, and in its train the 

passion that it fuels. 
We envy not your lordly lot— its bloom or 

its decayanee ; 
But ye have that we claim as ours — our 

right in long abeyance : 
Leisure to live, leisure to lov ', leisure to 

taste our freedom — 
Oh 1 euff'ring poor, oh ! patient poor, how 

bitterly you need them ! 
•'Ever to moil, ever to toil," that is your 

social charter. 
And city slave or peasant serf, the Toiler 

is its martyr. 



Where Frank and Tuscan sheJ their 
sweat, the goodly crop is theirs— 

If Norway's toil muke rich the soil, she 
eats the fruit she rears— 

O'er Maine's green sward there rules no 
lord, saving the Lord on high ; 

But we are slaves in our own land— proud 
masters, tell us why ? 

The German burgher and liis men, broth- 
er with brothers live. 

While Toil must wait without your gate 
what gracious crusts you give. 

Long in your sight, for our own right, 

we've bent, and still we bend- 
Why did we bow ? why do we now ? 
proud masters this must end. 

Perish the past— a generous land is this 

fair land of ours. 
An enmity may no man see between its 

towns and lowers. 
Come, join our bands — here take our 

hands — now sliame on him that 

lingers, 
Mercliant or Peer, you have no fear from 

Labor's blistered fingers. 
Come, join at last, perish the past— its 

traitoi^s, its seceders— 
Pioud names of old, frank hearts and 

bold, come join and be our leaders. 
But know, ye lords, that be your swords 

wiih us or witii our wronger. 
Heaven be our guide, for we will bide 

this lot of shame no longer. 



LITERARY LEISURE. 

Let my life pass in healthful, happy ease. 
The world and all its sciiemes shut out 

my door : 
Rich in a competence, and nothing 
more. 
Saving the student's wealth— " Apollo's 

fees " — 
Long rows of goodly volumes to appease 
My early love and quenchless thirst of 
lore. 
No want to urge me on the path of 
gain- 
No hope to lure me in ambition's track. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



63 



Straggles and strife, and all their savage 
train, 
Still from my tranquil dwelling driven 
back. 
My only triumphs — if such toys I lack- 
Some subtle nut of science, rent in 
twain, 
Or knot unravelled. Thus be't mine to 
live 
And feel life pass like a long Summer 
eve. 

B. I. DURWARD. 

1817 . 

Isaac Durward was born at Montrose, 
Scotland, on the 26th of March, 1817. 
His faUier was drowned when Isaac was 
an infant. His mother was a Baptist, but 
it does not st^am tliat he was brought up 
in any religion. As a boy, he sang in the 
Episcopal Church, although warned 
against it by his mother; " for you know," 
siie would say," it is next door to the 
Roman Catholic." His tastes soon led him 
to art, and he went to England as a por- 
trait painter. Here he married. In 1846 he 
came to America and settled at Milwau- 
kee, Wis. Having been engaged to paint 
the likenesses of Bishop Henni and several 
prominent Catholics, he became acquaint- 
ed with the true faith, and with his wife 
and children joyfully embraced what he 
had never rejected, but simply had not 
known. This was in the Spring of 1853. 
In baptism he took the name of Bernard, 
and some time after at a family meeting, 
it was decided that as the family had gone 
back to the old faith, it should also adopt 
the old and Catholic spelling of the name, 
" Durward." After his conversion he gave 
his attention more to literature, and held 
the position of Professor of the " English 
language. Rhetoric and Poetry," for ten 
years at the Ecclesiastical Seminary near 
Milwaukee. He wished to retire to the 
quiet that poets have ever loved, and pur- 
chased "Durward's Glen," a romantic 
spot in Columbia County. He was induced 
by urgent entreaties from Dr. Salzman to 



teach two years more at the starting of 
the "Teachers' Seminary" at St. Francis. 
He is now at the "Glen" among his vines 
and books, where the world that he 
wished to leave still finds him out. 



TO THE WILD ROSE. 
Symbol of love divine. 

Five petaled rose ! 
Sparkhng with dewy wine, 
On the uncultured sod 
' Thy beauty glows. 
Fresh from the hand ot God. 

One petal for each well, 

Each crimson fount, 
Opened by sin and hell 
On Jesus' bloody pale, 

In thee we count. 
Wild rose of hill and dale. 

Thou art my passion-flower; 

For Winter's storm 
Of sleet or stony shower 
Avails not to destroy 

The peerless form 
That fills my heart with joy. 

When o'er the hills in June 

I sighing come, 
My soul all out of tune. 
Jarred by the ills of time, 

Thy blossoms dumb 
Suggest a theme sublime. 

■ The theme that fills with love 

The earth beneath. 
And all the stars above. 
And scatters with its light 

The gloom of death. 
Turning our day to night. 

ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 

1818— 1877. 
Mrs. Elizabeth Fries Ellet was the 
daughter of Dr. William N. Lummis, and 
was born at Sodus Bay, N. Y., in 1818. 
She married William H. Ellet, Professor 
ot Chemistry, Mineralogy, and Geology, 
in South Carolina College, whence she 



64 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



retarneci with him in 1848, and setlled in 
New York. He died five years later. 
Mrs. EUet is best l?nown as the author of 
"Women of the Revolution," published 
about thirty years ago. She was a con- 
vert to the Catholic faith. 



SUSQUEHANNA. 
Softly the blended light of evening res' 
Upon thee, lovely stream! Ttie gentle tide. 
Picturing the gorgeous beauty of the sky, 
Onward, unbroken by the ruffling wind. 
Majestically flows. Oh ! by thy side, 
Far from tlie tumults and the throng of 

men. 
And the vain cares that vex poor human 

life, 
'Twere happiness to d well alone with thee, 
And the wide solemn grandeur of the 

scene. 
From thy green shores, the mountains 

that enclose 
In their vast sweep the beauties of the 

plain, 
Slowly receding toward the sides ascend, 
Enrobed with clustering woods o'er which 

the smile 
Of Autumn in his loveliness haih pass'd. 
Touching their foliage with his brilliant 

hues, 
And flinging o'er the lowliest leaf and 

shrub 
His golden livery. On the distant heights 
Soft clouds, earth-based, repose, and 

stretcli afar 
Their burnish'd summits in the clear blue 

heaven, 
Flooded with splendor, that the dazzled 

eye 
Turns drooping from the sight.— Nature 

is here 
Like a throned sovereign, and thy voice 

doth tell 
In music never silent, of her power. 
Nor are thy tones unanswer'd, where she 

builds 
Such monuments of regal sway. These 

wide 
Untrodden forests eloquently speak, 



Whether the breath of Summer stirs their 

depths. 
Or the hoarsa moaning of November's 

blast 
Strip from the boughs their covering. 

All the air 
Is now instinct with life. The merry hum 
Of the returning bee, and the blithe song 
Of fluttering bird, mocking the solitude. 
Swell upward— and the play of dashing 

streams 
From the green mountain side is faintly 

heard. 
The wild swan swims the waters' azure 

breast 
With graceful sweep, or startled, soars 

away. 
Cleaving with mounting wing the clear 

bright air. 

Oh ! in the boasted lands beyond the deep. 
Where Beauty hath a birth-right— where 

each mound 
And mouldering ruin tells of ages past— 
And every breeze, as with a spirit's tone. 
Doth waft the voices of Oblivion back. 
Waking the soul to lofty memories, 
Is there a scene whose loveliness could fill 
The heart with peace more pure? — Nor 

yet art tliou. 
Proud stream! without thy records- 
graven deep 
On yon eternal hills, which shall endure 
Long as their summits breast the wint'ry 

storm 
Or smile in the warm sunshine. They 

have been 
The chroniclers of centuries gone by: 
Of a strange race, who trod perchance 

their sides, 
Ere these gray woods had sprouted from 

the earth 
Which now they shade. Hero onward 

swept thy waves. 
When tones now silent mingled with their 

sound. 
And the wide shore was vocal with the 

song 
Of hunter chief, or lover's gentle strain. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



65 



Those pass'd away — forgotten as they 

pass'd; 
But holier recollections dwell with thee: 
Here hath immortal Freedom built her 

proud 
And solemn monuments. The mighty 

dust 
Of heroes in her cause of glory fallen, 
Hath mingled with the soil, and hal- 

low'd it. 
Thy waters in their brilliant path have 

seen 
The desperate strife that won a rescued 

world — 
The deeds of men who live in grateful 

hearts. 
And hymn'd their requiem. 

Par beyond this vale 
That sends to heaven its incense of lone 

flowers, 
Gay village spires ascend— and the glad 

voice 
Of industry is heard.— So in the lapse 
Of future years those ancient woods shall 

bow 
Beneath the levelling axe — and Man's 

abodes 
Display their sylvan honors. They will 

pass 
In turn away;— yet heedless of all change, 
Surviving all, thou still wilt murmur on, 
Lessoning the fleeting race that look on 

thee 
To mark the wrecks of time, and read 

their doom. 



THE WAVES THAT ON THE SPARK- 
LING SAND. 

The waves that on the sparkling sand 
Their foaming crests upheave. 

Lightly receding from the land, 
Seem not a trace to leave. 

Those billows in their ceaseless play 

Have worn the solid rocks away. 

The summer winds, which wandering 
sigh 
Amid the forest bower. 



So gently as they murmer by. 

Scarce lift tlie drooping flr)wer. 
Yet bear they, in autumnal gloom. 
Spring's wither'd beauties to the tomb. 

Thus worldly cares, though lightly borne, 

Their impress leave behind; 
Aad spirits, which their bonds would 
spurn, 
The blighting traces find. 
Till alter'd' thoughts and hearts grown 

cold. 
The change of passing years unfold. 



MRS. M. S. WHITAKER. 

1820 . 

Mrs. Mary Scrimzeom Whitaker was 
born in Beaufort, S. C, February 25, 1820, 
and is a daughter of the Rev. Samuel 
Furman, D.D., a distinguished Baptist 
minister. At an early age she was sent to 
Edinburgh, where she completed her edu- 
cation, and married John Miller, assessor 
of Leith, advocate, and afterwards attor- 
ney-general of the British West Indies, 
where he died three months after their 
marriage. In 1849 she married Dr. Daniel 
K. Whitaker, LL.D., editor of the South- 
ern Quarterly Review. She has published 
a volume of poems and other works. 
Mrs. Whitaker was received into the 
Church in 1877. 



MAN. 

The beautiful world hath its mountains 

and plains, 
And far-rolling ocean's majestic domains, 
With cataracts, caverns, white glaciers 

and lakes. 
With tropical groves and thick matted 

brakes, 
With sandy, bare deserts and numberless 

isles. 
With blue-arching heaven, its frowns and 

its smiles. 

And man, with intelligence almost divine. 
Commands the broad globe from the 
throne to the mine; 



66 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



Old ocean is traversed with ease as he 

wills. 
And electrial speed his mission fulfills: — 
Fair science he masters with daring era- 
prize, 
And brings down to earth the lore of tlie 

skies; — 
His far-seeing vision creajiion cons o'er, 
Explores every desert and treads every 
shore. 

He strikes his wild harp, and lo ! all 

things sub'ime. 
Sweet poesy sings with rapturous chime; 
Grand structures arise by his magical 

skill, 
And purple-clad orchards bloom rich on 

the hill, 
From barrenness freed by the strength of 

his hand. 
See golden fields ripened invitingly 

stand; 
And, traced by his fingers, what wisdom 

appears, 
What stores of vast learning— the record 

of years ! 

Majestic his form with seraphim grace. 

And a light, not of earth, looks forth 
from his face; 

Strange eloquence flashes untaught from 
his eye,— 

The spirit's effulgence, which never can 
die. 

His soul-stirring language, to awe or en- 
treat. 

Like whirlv?inds appalling, like Summer 
airs sweet, 

Takes captive the spirit enthralled by its 
"might, 

Makes midnight of morning and morn- 
ing of night. 

But mystic his being and changeful his 
state, 

If walking in sadness or proudly elate; 

And strange the connection of spirits un- 
known. 

Which links higher life with this life of 
his own. 

Far off he descries an elysium blest. 



With gush of clear fountains and music 
and rest. 

Religion's blest teaching his spirit con- 
trols. 

And points all his hopes to the country of 
souls; 

The far off, the grand, celestial and fair. 

For He, tlie Great Maker in glory dwells 
there ! 



THEODORE O'HARA. 

1820—1867. 

Colonel Theodore O'Hara was born in 
Kentucky, in 1820, and died in Grant 
County, Alabama, in 1867. He served 
with distinction in the war witli Mexico, 
in 1848, and in the Confederate army dur- 
ing the late war. It is probable that he 
wrote many poems, but his fame rests on 
his stirring " Bivouac of the Dead." This 
poem was written soon after the Mexican 
war, and immediately won recognition 
from the magnates of literature through- 
out the world. 



THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 

The soldier's last tattoo ! 
No more on life's parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few. 
On fame's eternal camping ground 

Their silent tents are spread. 
And glory guards with solenwi round 

The bivouac of the dead. 

The rumor of the foe's advance 

Now swells upon the wind, 
Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind. 
No vision of the morrow's strife 

The warrior's dream alarms. 
No braying horn, no screaming fife 

At dawn shall call lo arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust, 

Their plumed heads are bowed, 
Their hauglity banner, trailed in dust, 
• Is now their martial shroud — 



OF CATHOLIC POETS 



67 



And plenteous funeral tears have washed 
The red stains from each brow, 

And the proud forms, by battle grasped, 
Are free from anguish now. 

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 

The bugle's stirring blast. 
The charge, tlie dreadful cannonade, 

Tlie din and shout are passed. 
Nor War's wild notes, nor Glory's peal 

Shall thrill with fierce delight 
Those breasts that never more may feel 

Tiie rapture of the fight. 

Like the fierce Northern hurricane 

That sweeps his great plateau. 
Flashed with the triumph yet to gain, 

Come down the serried foe. 
Who heard the thunder of the fray 

Break o'er the field beneath. 
Knew well the watchword of the day 

Was " Victory or death ! " 

Full many a norther's breath has swept 

O'er Angostura's plain, 
And long tlie pitying sky has wept 

Above its mouldering slain. 
The raven's scream or eagle's flight, 

Or shepherd's pensive lay. 
Alone now wake each solemn height 

That frowned o'er that dread fray. 

Sons of the dark and bloody ground I 

We must not slumber there, 
Where stranger steps and tongues resound 

Along the heedless air; 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 

Shall be your fitter grave; 
She claims from war its richest spoil — 

The ashes of her brave. 

Til us 'neath their parent turf they rest. 

Far from the gory field. 
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 

On many a bloody shield. 
The sunshine of their native sky 

Smiles sadly on them here. 
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 

The hero's sepulchre. 

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead I 
Dear is the laud you gave— 



No impious footsteps here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave. 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 

While Fame her record keeps. 
Or Honor points the hallowed spot 

Where Valor proudly sleeps. 

Von marble minstrel's voiceful stone 

In deathless song shall tell, 
When many a vanished year hath flown. 

The story how you fell; 
Nor wreck, nor change, nor Winter's 
blight, 

Nor Time's remorseless doom 
Can dim one ray of holy light 

That gilds your glorious tomb. 

EEV. XAVIER DONALD Mc- 
LEOD. 

1821— 1865. 
Rev. Father McLeod was a native of 
New York, and was for some years an 
Episcopal minister. He became a Cath- 
olic and entered the priesthood. He was 
killed by a railroad train while attending 
a sick call. Father McLeod has written 
several volumes of prose, and not a few 
poems. His writings are brilliant and 
imaginative. 



THE SAGA OF VIKING TORQUIL. 

Where the snow clouds thickest darken, 
Where the tumbling, foaming seas 
Tharsh the rugged Hebrides ; 
Where the dark mist chillest gathers. 
Lived my fierce old pagan fathers, 

And their children keep those tracts, 
Living there, 'mid rock and heather, 
Lulled by howl of stormy weather 

And the roar of cataracts I 

Listen to a legend brief 

Of one island-ruling chiet 

Ruthless he in fray or duel, 
Curbless in his angry mood ; 

Ne'er was gaunt were- wolf so cruel, 
Never hawk so crazed for blood. 

Pillager of town and city, 

Sacker, without fear or pity, 



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THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



Headstrong talker, quarrel-seeker, 
Hatred- nurser, veiigeance-wreaker, 
Quick oEEended, prompt in striking, 

Dreadest pirate, roughest horseman, 
Was that grim old stormy viking, 

TOBQUIL ViCH Leodh, the Norseman. 
For his lust of cruel glory 
Lives he still in Lowland story ; 
Lowland nurses ne'er forget him,— 
Telling when the Southron met him, 
How he stormed throughout the foray 1 
Recked not how the foes environ. 
But, through thrillhig din and rattle, 
Ever where the need was sorest. 
With his ponderous mace of iron. 
Swung he, crashing through the battle, 
Like tornadoes through the forest. 

Yet one trait could claim exemption 
From the iron of his nature ; 

Though so reckless, grim a creature, 
And as jungle-panther wild, 

He had one point of redemption — 
Never had he harmed a child. 

When his fiercest mood was o'er him. 
Place a little one before him, 

He would stoop to smooth its tresses ; 
Never could it fail to calm him 
With its bright smile, nor to charm him 

Into peace with its caresses. 

Even in fighting - it was curious — 
When the battle raged most furious, 
And an hundred blows were hailing 
On his casque and on his shield. 
Though to him all fear was stranger, 
He would shrink from those assailing. 
Would turn back, nay, almost yield. 
But to save a child from danger. 

When at length the Valkyr calleri him 
With their weird and triple wail, 

Think you that the sound appalled him ? 
That his cheek grew pale ? 

No ! he dashed his robe away, 
Shouted for i is mace and mail, 

And went out to die in fray. 

On Clanorgan's heath a hundred 
Steel-clad Southrons ro nd him closed. 



Once again his broadsword sundered 
Turge and lance to him opposed ; 

Once again his fearful frown 
Overawed tlie Celtic clamor ; 

And his mighty mace came down 
Like Thor's awful thunder-hammer, — 

Heaviest fell it on the greatest ; 
And for hours he swung it hght 
As a birch wand, for the fight 

Was his keenest and his latest. 

Hot they pressed him ; all attacks 

Sought him only ; on his shattered 
Armor, mace and glaive and ax, 

Hacked and pierced and clove and bat- 
tered ; 
Blow on blow come fiercely pealing. 

Till he reeled, but smote in reeling 1 
And the purple gore ran proneward, 
fill his armor grew all ruddy ; 
And the foe pressed on and onward ; 

And his casque yawned wide and bloody 
Where the trenchant steel had bitten. 

Till he tottered and crashed down- 
ward, 
Like a great oak thunder-smitten. 

Then the victors and the flying, 

Borne upon the battle's tide, 
Surged off to another quarter. 

Leaving Torquil crushed and dying, 
Mutterinsr : "Oh! before I died, 

Would I had a draught of water ! " 

Then small fingers, soft and tender. 
Wiped the red clots from his eyes ; 
Put aside the matted hair. 

And a mild and starry splendor. 
Like the light of eastern skies. 
Showed the infant Jesus there. 

On the rough old sea- wolf smiled 

The Divine, Eternal Child ! 

" Torquil I fierce and wild and gory 

Have thy days been : little good 
Sheds its luster on thy story, 

Which is written out in blood. 
Damning, hopeless and bewildering 

Were the crimes against thee shown ; 
But the angels of young children 

Plead for thee before the throne. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



For thy grace and shrift they sought. 

Now I bring that grace to thee : 
What for children thou hast wrought 

Thou liast wrought for Me ! 
And thy God withholds His curses ; 

And, however men esteem thee, 
I, for those, thy tender mercies, 

Do baptize thee and redeem thee ! " 

Then, o'er Torquil's fevered brow 

Poured a cool and limpid flow ; 

And his soul, though fohl with slaughter, 

And with guilt and crime o'erladen, 
Knew that it was living water 

From the very wells of Eden. 

When the clansmen came again 
Seeking there amid the slain 
For the grim and fierce old Norseman, 
Where the dead were thickest piieii. 

And the heath most torn and bloody, 
On a heap of slaughtered horsemen, 

Found they Torquil's shattered body ; 
But his shrived soul slept and smiled 
On tie bosom of the child. 



RICHARD D ALTON WILLIAMS. 

1822 — 1S62. 
Bichard Dal ton Williams was born in 
County Tipperary, Ireland, in 1823. He 
was educated at the Catholic college of 
Carlow, where he gave early promise of 
his genius and power as a poet. He came 
to America in 1850, and was professor in 
various Catholic Colleges until his death, 
which occurred at Thibidoux, La., in 1862. 



THE DYING GIRL. 
From a Munster vale they brought her. 

From the pure and balmy air. 
An Orraond peasant's daughter, 

With blue eyes and golden hair. 
They brought her to the city, 

And she faded slowly tliere ; 
Consumption has no pity 

For blue eyes and golden hair. 

When 1 saw her first reclining. 
Her lips were moved in prayei', 



And the setting sun was shining 

On her loosened golden hair. 
When our kindly glances met her. 

Deadly brilliant was her eye ; 
And she said that slie was better, 

While we knew that she must die. 

She speaks of Munster valleys, 

The patron, dance and fair. 
And her thin hand feebly dallies - 

With her scattered golden hair. 
When silently we listen'd 

To her breath, with quiet care, 
Her eyes with wonder glisten'd. 

And she ask'd us what was there. 

The poor thing smiled to ask it. 

And her pretty mouth laid bare, 
Like gems within a casket, 

A string of pearlets rare. 
We said that we were trying 

By the gushing of her blood, 
And the time she took in sighing 

To know if she were good. 

Well, she smiled and chatted gayly, 

Though we saw, in mute despair. 
The hectic brighter daily. 

And the death-dew on her hair 
And oft, her wasted fingers 

Beating time upen the bed, 
O'er some old tune she lingers. 

And she bows her golden head. 

At length the harp is broken, 

And the spirit in its strings, 
As the last decree is spoken, 

To its source, exulting, springs. 
Descending swiftly from the skie.s, 

Her guardian angel came ; 
He struck God's lightning from her eyes. 

And bore him back the flame. 

Before the sun had risen 

Through the lark-loved morning air. 
Her young soul left its prison,. 

Undefiled by sin or care. 
I stood beside the couch in tears. 

Where, pale and calm, she slept. 
And thougli I've gazed on death for years, 

I blush not that I wept. 



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I check'd with effort pity's sighs, 
And left the matron there. 

To close the curtains of her eyes, 
And bind her golden hair. 



REV. JEREMIAH WILLIAM 
CUMMINGS. 

1822— 1866. 
Father Cummings was born in Wash- 
ington, D. C, in 1822, and received his 
ecclesiastical education at the College of 
the Propaganda, in Rome. He was the 
founder of St. Stephen's Church, New 
York, and continued as its pastor until 
his death, on January 5, 1866. He was 
an exceedingly learned man, an earnest 
pastor and a wariu friend. 



LIGHT, THE KING OF COLORS. 

I beheld in a dream this fantastical king. 
Holding court 'mid the flowers and the 

sunshine of Sprintr, 
Where birds of gay plumage are rocked 

by the breeze, 
As they perch on the blossoming boughs 

of the trees. 

He sits on a canopied throne, qu?.int of 
mould, 

Bepowdered with diamonds, and span- 
gled with gold ; 

And the gaudiest butterfly e'er honey 
sipped, 

Ig the emblem wherewith his tall sceptre 
is tipped. 

When the wind and the tempest from 

ether are driven, 
He buildeth the arch of his triumph in 

heaven ; 
He swings from the water-fall's margin 

in play, 
And his mantle of motley is washed by 

the spray. 

He lives in the sunbeams ; when night is 

at hand, 
When the gray steeds of Winter career 

o'er the land, 



He shuns their encounter and speeds him 

away, 
Where the sun never sets and the flowers 

ne'er decay. 

He is fond of mankind— it is he lends a 

grace 
To the maiden when modesty purples her 

face. 
He beams on the lip, in the eye of the 

child. 
Whom the cold breath of malice has not 

yet defiled. 

Yes, he loves us— and oft when the sun's 

going down. 
Ere darkness advance in her mantle of 

brown. 
To salute us he hangs out his banners on 

high. 
With bright hues adorning the sea and 

the sky. 

It was he that to Italy's fortunate sage* 
Appeared for the weal of a studious age ; 
A smile lit his features, majestic, yet 

bland, 
And a wonderful diamond blazed in bis 

hand. 

"Take this gift" (thus he spoke), "and 

no talisman's spell 
With magical craft could endow thee so 

well — 
Lift it up to the sun, and the proud king 

of day 
Must resign to thy power e'en his crown's 

brightest ray. 

" Henceforth to thine eye 'tis permitted to 

scan 
A mystery never laid open to man. 
An amusement this day to ihe sage has 

been given. 
Reserved hitherto for young cherubs in 

heaven." 

The philosopher tested his mystical sway 
Where his lattice was pierced by an ar- 
rowy ray. 

* Grlmaldl, an Itallaa philosopher, who, about 
the year 1672, made some valuable discoveries 
in opiics. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



71 



He held up the prism, and the sunbeams 

unrolled ■ 
The treasures of tint wliich their bosoms 

enfold. 

A. broad rainbow amazed the philoso- 
pher's view, 

Arabesquing his cell in red, green, gold 
and blue ; 

And LIGHT, that heard none save its 
Maker's command. 

Became subject that day to a mortal's 
frail hand. 

MISS R. V. ROBERTS. 

182.^ . 

Miss Rebecca Veronica Roberts was 
born in Philadelpliia, January 14, 1823. 
Her parents belonged to the Society of 
Friends, but in 1825 Miss Roberts and two 
of her sisters embraced the Catholic faith. 
She has written much, and acceptably, 
for religious and secular journals. She 
now resides in Washington, D. C. 



THE THREE-FOLD WEDDING DAY. 
On a ripe October morning, just after a 

crisp, clear frost, 
When the trees, like gorgeous banners, 

by the Autunui winds were tossed, 
When the nuts were dropping in the 

woods, for the squirrels to hide away. 
And all the country gardens, with "Queen 

Margarets " were gay. 
When the harvesting was over, in all the 

country side. 
We kept three joyous weddings, and did 

honor to each fair bride. 

The first was our eldest sister, a " Marga- 
ret" flower too— 

No fresher, sweeter blossom, e'er in gar- 
den border grew, 

And no braver, blither spirit, ever laughed 
at frost and storm, 

And we gave her to the keeping of a heart 
as true and warm; 

With a store of liop^sand blessings, show- 
ered on lier bi iglit young head. 

Her marriage-vows, " for t)etter, or for 
worse," were dul^ said. 



Tiien we saw, in stalwart manhood, our 

father take his stand. 
Holding, in firm and tender clasp, our 

gentle mother's liand, 
While slie, in her matron beauty, could 

scarce have looked more fair. 
When first she gave her maiden heart to 

his protecting care ; 
With deeper trust in well-tried love, they 

their marriage vows renew, 
For they are keeping a wedding day — 

their silver wedding, too. 

But sure, in her beautiful honored age, 

the dearest, sweetest " bride," 
Was grandmamma,in her high-back chair, 

with grandpapa by her side — 
The snow-white curls of her soft tliin hair 

peeping out beneath her cap. 
And the flush on lier cheek almost as pure, 

as the baby girl's, on her lap. 
As grandpapa bent— leaning on his cane 

— his hoary, tremulous head, 
To kiss her feeble wrinkled hand, with its 

wedding rhig worn to a thread. 

This was their golden wedding day— full 

fifty years had sped, 
Since their marriage vows, so truly kept, 

had in fervent love been said; — 
Wliile "our eldest" and her bridegroom 

talked of their life, but just begun,— 
They spoke of tlie trials and cares of a 

long, long life, now almost done, 
And I heard dear grandmamma wliisper: 

" May they dwell, like us, in love, 
And the good Lord grant we all may meet, 

at the marriage feast above." 



COVENTRY PATMORB. 

1823 . 

Coventry Patmore was born in 1823, 
and is one of the favorite poets of the 
present day. His chief work is "The 
Angel in the House," pronounced by 
Ruskin " a most finished piece of writing, 
and the sweetest analysis we pc ssess of 
quiet, modern, domestic feeling." He 
has written many other beautiful poems. 



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For a number of years past he has been 
Assistant in the Library of the British 
Museum. He is also a frequent contrib 
utor to the reviews, Mr. Patmore is a 
convert to the Catholic faith. 



PARTING. 
If thou dost bid thy friend farewell, 
But for one night though that farewell 

may be, 
Press thou this hand in thine. 
How canst thou tell how far from thee 
Fate or caprice may lead lus steps ere 

that to-morrow comes? 
Men have been known to lightly turn the 

corner of a street. 
And days have grown to months, 
And months to lagging years, ere they 

have looked in loving eyes again. 

Parting, at best, is underlaid 

With tears and pain. 

Therefore, lest sudden death should come 

between, 
Or time, or distance— clasp with pressure 

firm the hand 
Of liim who goeth forth. 
Unseen, Fate goelh too. 
Yea, find thou always time to say some 

earnest word 
Between the idle talk, lest, with thee 

henceforth, 
Night and day, regret should walk. 



THE WISE. 
They live by law; not like the fool, 

But like the bard, who freely sings 
In strictest bonds of rhyme and rule. 

And finds in them not bonds, but wings. 

They shine like Moses in the face. 
And teach our hearts, witliout the rod. 

That God's grace is the only grace. 
And all grace is the grace of God. 



She must be glad as well as good, 
And must not only be, but seem. 

Beauty and joy are hers by right; 

And, knowing this, I wonder less 
That she's so scorned when falsely dight 

In misery and ugliness. 



HONORIA. 

She was all mildness, yet 'twas writ 

Upon her beauty, legibly, 
"He that's for heaven itself unfit. 

Let him not hope to merit Me." 
And such a challenge, quite apart 

From thoughts of love, humbled, and 
thus 
To sweet repentance moved my heart. 

And made me more magnanimous. 
And led me to review my life 

Inquiring where in aught the least, 
If question were of her for wife, 

111 might be mended, hope increased; 
Sot, that I soared so far above 

Myself, as this great hope to dare; 
And yet I half foresaw that love 

Might hope, where reason would despair. 



LET WISDOM BE GLAD AND FAIR. 

Would Wisdom for herself be wooed. 
And wake the foolish from his dream, 



THE TOYS, 

My little son, who look'd from thought- 
ful eyes. 

And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up 
wise. 

Having my law the seventh time diso- 
bey'd, 

I struck him, and dismiss'd 

With harsh words and unkiss'd. 

His mother, who was patient, being dead. 

T.ien, fearing lest his grief siiould hinder 
sleep, 

I visited his bed. 

But found him slumbering deep. 

With darkened eyelids, and iheir lashes 
yet. 

From ills late sobbing wet. 

And L with moan. 

Kissing away his tears, left others of my 
own; 

For, on a table drawn beside his head, 



OF CATHOLIC POi^JTB. 



73 



He had put, within his reach, 

A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, 

A piece of glass abraded by the beach, 

And six or seven shells, 

A bottle with bluebells 

And two French copper coins, ranged 

there with careful art, 
To comfort his sad heart. 
So when that night I pray'd 
To God, I wept, and said: 
Ah, wlien at last we lie with tranced 

breath. 
Not vexing Thee in death, 
And Thou reraemberesl of what toys 
We made our joys, 
How weakly understood, 
Thy great commanded good. 
Then, fatherly not less 
Than I whom Thou hast moulded from 

the clay, 
Tliou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 
■' I will be sorry for their childishness." 



GEORGE HENRY MILES. 

1824— 1871. 
George Henry Miles was born in Balti- 
more, in 1824, and was for many years a 
Professor at Mount St. Mary's College, 
Emmittsburg, Md. He wrote "Christine: 
a Tragedy," and numerous other poems, 
and is, by manj, considered to be the best 
of the American Catholic poets. 



SAID THE ROSE. 

I am weary of the garden, 

Said the Rose ; 
For the Winter winds are sighing. 
All my playmates round me dying, 
And my leaves will soon be lying 

'Neath the snows. 

But I hear my mistress coming. 

Said tlie Rose; 
She will talve me to her chamber, 
Where the honeysuckles clamber. 
And I'll bloom there ah December, 

Spite the snows. 



Sweeter fell her lily finger 

Than the bee! 
Ah, how feebly I resisted, 
Smoothed my thorns, and e'en assisted 
As all blushing I was twisted 

Off my tree. 

And she fixed me in her bosom 

Like a star; 
And I flashed there all tiie morning, 
Jasmine, honeysuckle scorning, 
Parasites forever fawning, 

That they are. 

And when evening came she set me 

In a vase 
All of rare and radiant metal. 
And I felt her red lips settle 
On my leaves, till each proud petal 

Touched her face. 

And I stione about her slumbers 

Like a light; 
And, I said, instead of weeping, 
In the garden vigil keeping, 
Here I'll watch my mistress sleeping 

Every night. 

But wlien morning with its sunbeams 

Softly shone. 
In the mirror, as she braided 
Her brown hair, I saw how jaded, 
Old, and colorless, and faded, 

I had grown. 

Not a drop of dew was on me. 

Never one ; 
From my leaves no odors started, 
All my perfume had departed, 
I lay, pale and broken-hearted. 

In the sun. 

Still, I said, her smile is better 

Than the vain ; 
Though my fragrance may forsake me. 
To her bosom she will take me, 
And with crimson kisses make me 

Young again. » 

So she took me * * gazed a second * * » 

Half a sigh * * * 
Then, alas, can hearts so harden? 



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Without ever asking pardon, 

Threw me back into the garden, 
There to die. 

How the jealous garden gloried 

In my fall ! 
How the honeysuckles chid me, 
How the sneering jasmines bid me 
Light the long, gray grass that hid me, 

Like a pall. 

There I lay, beneath her window, 

In a swoon, 
Till the earthworm o'er me trailing. 
Woke me just at twilight's failing. 
As the whippoorwill was wailing 

To the moon. 

But I hear tlie s'orm-winds stirring 

In their lair; 
And I know they soon will lift me 
In their giant arms and sift me 
Into ashes as they drift me 

Through the air. 

So I pray them in their mercy 

Just to take 
From my heart of hearts, or near it. 
The last living leaf and bear it 
To her feet, and bid her wear it 

For my sake. 

ELIZA ALLAN STARR. 

1824 . 

Miss Eliza Allan Starr was born in Deer- 
field, Mass., August 29, 1824, She was 
educated in her native town. Her time 
and studies liave been given to literature 
and art. In 1856 she located in Chicago. 
She published a volume of poems in 1867, 
and a volume entitled "Patron Saints," in 
1871. Miss Starr is a convert, and was re- 
ceived into the Catholic communion in 
December, 1854. Her poems possess re- 
markable merit, and entitle her to far 
greater and wider recognition than has 
been accorded her. 

IN THE TIMBER. 

The woods, so strangely solemn and ma- 
jestic, 



The awful noon-tide twilight 'neath 
grand trees. 

The hush like that of holy haunts mo- 
nastic. 

While mighty branches, lifting with the 
breeze, 

Give glimpses of high heaven's cerulean 
sheen, 

The Autumn-tinted leaves and boughs 
between. 

Thus stands the picture. Prom the home- 
stead door, 

Close in the timber's edge I strayed one 
day 

To yonder knoll, where— as to some calm 
shoie 

A well worn bark might drift in its de- 
cay— 

A great man lies in pulseless, dreamless 
sleep, 

O'er which two oaks untiring sentry 
keep. 

A few fresh flowers, with reverent hand, 

I placed 
Upon the grave— he loved fair nature's 

lore— 
And with a quickened memory retraced 
Our dear old village history once more; 
Made up of all the close, familiar ties 
Of common country, lot and families. 

Then from the knoll, a greensward path 

I took 
Between the sunny cornfields and the 

wood 
With sunny aspect and a fair ofiE-look; 
Till, suddenly, with pulses hushed, I 

stood 
Beneath a fretted vault, where branches 

high 
Wove their bright tufts of crimson with 

blue sky. 

The sombrous twilight with a breathless 

awe 
Fell on my heart; the last year's rotting 

leaves 
Strewed thickly the soft turf, on which I 

saw 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



75 



Shy stalks of dark-stemmed maiden-hair 

in threes; 
While round me rose hugh oaks, whose 

giant forms 
Had wrestled with a century's wind and 

storms. 

For life was there, strong life and strug- 
gle; sears 

Seamed the firm bark closed over many 
a wound 

Borne 'neath the tranquil eye of heaven's 
far stars; 

For in their woe the oaks stood, never 
swooned— 

The great trunks writhed and twisted, 
groaned; then rose 

To nobler height and loftier repose. 

Faint heart, weak faitli! How oft in weary 

pain. 
In life-long strife with hell's deceitful 

power, 
I turn me to the brave old wooas amiin, 
Their leafy coronals exultant tost 
On the wild wiud, like some victorious 

host. 



THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 

October's loveliest flower, so wondrous 

blue, 
Whose eyelids, softly fringed, still hold 
the dew 
Of frosty Autumn nights, 
Yet smiles anew 
When morn the hill-top light8. 

Thou mindest me, by thy celestial dye, 
Of our most Virgin Lady's heavenly eye; 

So meekly hid 

Beneath its fringed lid; 

With pity wet 

For man, witii ills beset. 

For love of her I lay tbee on her shrine; 

Make my sweet duty to her, flow'ret mine ; 

And beg that eye, for Jesus's sake, to turn 
On all who sigh and mourn 
In frosty vales and drear: 
Lady dear, accept and hearl 



OCCULTATION OF VENUS. 

[Al'RIL 21, i860.] 

Tlie virgin moon, with one clear star 
Poised liglitly on its shining horn; 

A vestal lamp, whose beauteous flame 
Was for an evening's wonder born. 

Thus Venus paused with kindling beams 
O'er lovely Dian's crescent white; 

A moment quivered, flashed anew. 
Then slowly passed from eager sight. 

grandest star of matin hours ! 

loveliest star of tranquil even ! 
What doom has quenched thy peerless 
ray. 

And robbed the azure dome of heaven? 

pain of loss, how sharp thy bladel 
How keen thy search, bereaved eyes! 

While svvift as thought our glances range 
The glittering spaces of the skies. 

In vain for me red Saturn's rings. 
Or Jupiter's revolving moons; 

Tlieir light, like thine, can never cham 
The silent evening's pensive glooms. 

Love's faithful eye will miss thy gleam. 
As twilight steals o'er lake and shore; 

And weep to think those joyous waves 
Reflect thy beauties never more. 

One twinkling gleam, and lo! the star 
Now mourned as lost, fair Dian, glides 

Beside thee, loved companion still. 
On thy calm orbits' tranquil tides. 

Unshorn its ray, undiinmed its light, 
But hidden, not withdrawn, from view; 

Again tlie star of love and joy 
Gleams, softly, from the vaulted blue. 

friend, whose genius, like a star. 
Once o'er my life as fairly shone, 

In vain I wait thy swift return 
In death's long occultation gonel 

Suns, systems, cycles, duly turn 
On thy short axle, finite time, 

And only man still grandly claims 
Eternal spaces, God's sublime 

Infinitude of place, beyond 
Thy blue and vasty firmament; 



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From whence, to time, none e'er return, 
Though hearts may break iu sharp 
lament. 

THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 

182S— 1867. 
Thomas D'Arcy McGee was born in 
Ireland, April 13, 1825, and was assassin- 
ated in- Montreal April 7, 1867. He has 
published a volume of poems and other 
works. His poems are full of vigor, and 
abound with pathos and delicate fancy. 



JACQUES CARTIER. 
I. 

In the seaport of Saint Malo, 'twas a smil- 
ing morn in May, 

When the Commodore Jacques Cartier to 
the westward sailed away ; 

In the crowded old cathedral, all the 
town were on their knees, 

For the safe return of kinsmen from the 
undiscovered seas ; 

And every autumn blast that swept o'er 
pinnacle and pier. 

Fill'd manly hearts with sorrow, and 
gentle hearts with fear. 

n, 

A year pass'd o'er Saint Malo— again came 

round the day 
When the Commodore Jacques Cartier to 

the westward sail'd away ; 
But no tidings from the absent had come 

the way they went, 
And tearful were the vigils that many a 

maiden spent; 
And manly hearts were filled with gloom, 

and gentle hearts with fear, 
When no tidings came from Cartier at 

the closing of the year. 

III. 

But the Earth is as the Future, it hath 
its hidden side, 

And the captain of Saint Malo was re- 
joicing in his pride. 

In the forests of the North— while his 
townsmen mourn'd his loss. 



He was rearing on Mount Royal the 

fleur-de-lis and cross; 
And when two months were over and 

added to the year. 
Saint Malo hailed him home again, cheer 

answering to cheer. 

IV. 

He told them of a region, hard, iron- 
bound and cold, 

Nor seas of pearl abounded, nor mines of 
shining gold, 

Where the wind from Thule freezes the 
word upon the lip. 

And the ice in Spring comes sailing 
athwart the early ship. 

He told them of the frozen scene until 
they thrill'd with fear. 

And piled fresh fuel on the hearth to 
make him better cheer. 

V. 

But when he changed the strain — he toiii 

them how soon is cast 
In early Spring the fetters that hold the 

waters fast; 
How the winter causeway broken, is 

drifted out to sea. 
And the rills and rivers sing with pride 

the anthem of the free; 
How the magic wand of Summer clad 

the landscape, to his eyes. 
Like the dry bones of the just when they 

wake in Paradise. 

VI. 

He told them of the Algonquin braves— 

the hunters of the wild. 
Of how the Indian mother in the forest 

rocks her child; 
Of how, poor souls ! they fancy in every 

living thing 
A spirit good or evil, that claims their 

worshiping; 
Of how they brought their sick an 1 

maim'd for him to breatlie upon, 
And of the wonders wrought for them 

through the Gospel of St. John. 

VII. 
He told them of the river, whose mighty 
current gave 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



Its freshness, for a hundred leagues, to 
ocean's briny wave; 

He told them of the glorious scene pre- 
sented to his sight, 

What time he rear'd the cross and crown 
on Hochelaga's height, 

And of the fortress cliff that keeps of 
Canada the key, 

l.nd they welcomed back Jacques Cartier 
from his perils o'er the sea. 



RETURN. 

I have a sea-going spirit, It haunts my 
sleep, 
Not a sad spirit, wearisome to follow: 
Less like a tenant of the mystic deep 
Than the good fairy of the hazel hol- 
low: 
And often at the midwatch of the night 

I see departins in his silver barque 
This spirit, steering toward an eastern 
light. 
Calling me to him from the western 
dark. 
"Spirit!" I ask, "say whither bound 
away ?" 
"Unto the old Hesperides !" he cries; 
"0, spirit, take me in thy barque, 1 
pray." 
"For ihee I came," he joyfully re- 
plies ; 
"Exile, no longer shalt thou absent 
mourn. 
For I the spirit am, men call — Re- 
turn ! " 



THE PRIEST OF PERTH.* 
( Requiescat in pace. Amen.) 

A PRAYER FOR THE SOUL OF THE PRIEST OF 



We who sat at the cheerfui hearth, 
Knew the wisdom rare, of priceless worth 
He bears away from the face of earth; 
Peace to the soul of the Priest of Pertli ! 

* The Very Reverend .John H. McDonagh, of 
Perth, Quebec, Vicar-Geneval of the Diocese 
of Kingston. 



n. 

Dead ! and his sun of life so high ! 
Dead ! Willi no cloud in all his sky ! 
Dead ! and it seems but yesterday 
When happy and hopeful he sail'd away, 
As Priest and Celt to his double home— 
For Westport bay and Eternal Rome. 

Ashes to ashes ! earlli to earth ! 

God rest tlie soul of the Priest of Perth ! 

III. 

Yet there was a sign in ills gracious sky. 
Up where the Cross he lifted high, 
Glow'd in the morn and evening light, 
Kiss'd by the reverent moon at niglit — 
Glow'd through the vista'd northern 

pines, 
" That's Perth, where the Cross so bright- 
ly shines." 
Many will say, as many have said, 
Bearing true tribute to the dead- 
Ashes to ashes ! earth to earth I 
Rest to the soul of the Priest of Perth I 

IV. 

And there was the home he loved to 

make 
So dear, for friend and kinsman's sake ; 
Oh, many a day and many a year 
Will come for his mourners, far and near, 
But never a friend more true or dear. 
5I:iny a wreatli of Canadian snow 
Will hide the gardens and gates we know. 
And many a Spring will deck again 

His trees, in all their leafy glory. 
But none shall ever bring back, for men. 

The smile, the song, the sinless story— 
The holy zeal that still presided, 
Which none encountered and derided— 
That yielded not one fast or feast, 
One right or rubric of the priest ; 

Ashes to ashes ! earth to earth ! 

Peace to the soul of the Priest of Perth ! 

V. 
A golden Pries i, of the good old school, 
Fearless and prompt to lead and rule ; 
Free from every taint of pride, 
But ready, aye, ready, to chide or guide ; 
Tenderly binding the bruised heart, 
Sparing no sin its penal smart ; 



78 



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His will was as the granite rock 
To the prowler, menacing his flock ; 
But never lichen or wild-flower grew 
On rocky ground more fair to view, 
Than his charity was to all he knew ; 
Laying the outlines deep and broad, 
Df an infant church, he daily trod 
His path in the visible sight of God ; 

Ashes to ashes ! earth to earth ! 

Peace to the soul of the Priest of Perth ! 

VI. 

Saints of God ! je who await 
Your beloved by the beautiful gate ! 
Ye Saints who people his native shore- 
Beloved Saint John, whose name he bore— 
And ye. Apostles ! unto whom 
He prayed, a pilgrim, by your tomb— 
And thou ! Queen of Heaven and Earth ! 
Receive— receive the Priest of Perth I 



ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. 

1825 — 1864. 

Adelaide Anne Procter, daughter of the 
poet Procter, was herself a poet by divine 
right. Charles Dickens was the first to 
discover her genius. 

Miss Procter's first considerable publi- 
cation was in 1858, a volume entitled "Le- 
gends and Lyrics, a Book of Verses." It 
met with immediate success, and passed 
through a larg« number of editions. A 
second series of "Legends and Lyrics" 
appeared in 1860, and in 1862 "A Chaplet 
of Verses." 

"Seldom," says a writer in the Athe- 
ncBum, "do we meet a collection of 
fugitive pnems so pleasantly fulfilling 
friendly desire, and so able to bear the 
brunt of criticism as this. There is real- 
ity in it. It is full of a thoughtful seri- 
ousness, a grave tenderness, a fancy tem- 
perate but not frigid, which will recom- 
mend themselves to every one who has a 
touch of the artist in his composition. 
The manner (and this is much to say) is 
not borrowed. "Without any startling 
originality, it is Miss Procter's own, and 
not her father's ; not Wordsworth's ; not 



the Laureate's ; not referable to the 
Brownings." 



A DOUBTING HEART. 

Where are the swallows fled ? 

Frozen and dead. 
Perchance upon some bleak and stormy 
shore. 
doubting heart I 
Far over purple seas 
They wait in sunny ease 
The balmy southern breeze, 
To bring them to the northern home 
once more. 

Why must the flowers die ? 

Prisoned they lie 
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. 
doubting heart I 
They only sleep below 
The soft white ermine snow, 
While Winter winds shall blow, 
To breathe and smile upon you soon again. 

The sun has hid its rays 
These many days ; 
Will dreary hours never leave the earth ? 
doubting heart ! 
The stormy clouds on high 
Veil the same sunny sky, 
That soon (for Spring is nigh) 
Shall wake the Summer into golden mirth. 

Fair hope is dead, and light 
Is quenched in night. 
What sound can break the silence of de- 
spair ? 
doubting heart I 
Thy sky is overcast. 
Yet stars shall rise at last, 
Brighter for darkness past, 
And angels' silver voices stir the air. 



A PARTING. 

Without one bitter feeling let us part— 
And for the years in which your love 

has shed 
A radiance like a glory round my head, 
I thank you, yes, I thank you from my 
heart. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



79 



I thank you for the cherished hopes of 
yenrs, 
A s'.airy luture, dim and yet divine, 
"Win.?ing its way from heaven to be 
mine, 
Laden with joy, and ignorant of tears. 

I thank you, yes, I thank you even more 
That my heart learnt not without love 

to live, 
But gave and gave, and still had more 
to give, 
From an abundant and exhaustless store 

I thank you, yes, I thank you even more— 
I thank you, not in bitterness, but truth, 
For the fair vision that adorned my 
youth 

And glorified so many happy years. 

Yet how much more I thank you tliat you 
tore 
At length the veil your hand had woven 

away. 
Which hid my idol was a thing of clay 
And wasted all the purpose of my youth. 

I thank you that your hand dashed down 
the shrine, 
Wherein my idol worship I had paid, 
Else had I never known a soul was 
made 
To serve and worship' only the Divine. 

I thank you that the heart I cast away 
On such as you, though broken, bruised 

and crushed. 
Now that its fiery throbbing is all 
hushed. 
Upon a worthier altar I can lay. 

1 thank you for the lesson that such love 
Is a perverting of God's royal right, 
Tliat it is made but for the Infinite, 

And all too great to live except above. 

\ thank you for a terrible awaking, 
And if reproach seemed hidden in my 

pain. 
And sorrow seemed to cry on your dis- 
dain. 
Know that my blessing lay in your for- 
saking. 



Farewell forever now— in peace we part ; 
And should an idle vision of my tears 
Arise before your soul in aft'T years, 

Remember that I thank you from my 
heart I 



OUR DEAD. 

Nothing is our own: we hold our pleas- 
ures 

Just a little while ere they are fled; 
One by one life robs us of our treasures; 

Nothing is our own except our dead. 

Tiiey are ours, and hold in faithful keep- 
hig, 

Safe forever, all they took away; 
Cruel life can never stir that sleeping, 

Cruel time can never seize that prey. 

Justice pales, truth fades, stars fall from 
Heaven; 

Human are the great whom we revere; 
No true crown of honor can be given 

Till the wreath lies on a funeral bier. 

How the children leave us ! and no traces 
Linger of that smiling angel band; 

Gone, forever gone— and in their places 
Weary men and anxious women stand. 

Yet we have some little ones, still ours; 

They have kept the baby smile we know, 
Which we kissed one day, and hid with 
flowers, 

On their dead white faces long ago. 

When our joy is lost — and life will take 
it- 
Then no memory of the past remains, 
Save with some strange, cruel stings, that 
make it 
Bitterness beyond all present pains. 

Death, more tender-hearted, leaves to sor- 
row 
Still the radiant shadow— fond regret; 
We shall find, in some far, bright to-mor- 
row, 
Joy that he has taken, living yet. 

Is love ours, and do we dream we know it? 
Bound with all our heart-strings, all our 
own? 



80 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



Any cold and cruel dawn may show it 
Shattered, desecrated, overthrown. 

Only the dead hearts forsake us never; 

Love, that to Death's loyal care has fled, 
Is thus consecrated ours forever. 

And no change can rob us of our dead. 

So, when fate comes to besiege our city, 
Dim our gold, or make our flowers fall. 

Death, the ange', comes in love and pity. 
And, to save our treasures, claims them 
alL 



MAXIMUS. 
[ hold him great, who, for Iovb's sake. 

Can give with generous, earnest will; 
5fet he who takes for love's sweet sake 

I think I hold more generous still. 

I bow before the noble mind 

That freely some great wrong forgives; 
Yet nobler is the one forgiven 

Who bears the burden well, and lives. 

It may be hard to gain, and still 
To keep, a lowly, steadfast heart: 

Yet he who loses has to fill 
A harder and a truer part. 

Glorious it is to wear the crown 
Of a deserved and pure success: 

He who knows how to fail has won 
A crown whose luster is not less, 

Grreat may be he who can command 
And rule with just and tender sway; 

Yet is diviner wisdom taught ' 

Better by him who can obey. 

Blessed are they who die for God, 
And earn the martyr's crown of light; 

Yet he who lives for God may be 
A greater conqueror in his sight. 

DANTE GxiBRIEL ROSSETTI. 

1828 . 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti was born in Lon- 
don, in 1828, and is a sou of Mr. Gabriel 
Rossetti, Professor of Italian at Kiug's 
College, London who died in 185i. Mr. 
Rossetti is an artist, and is one of the 



ori':jinators of what is termed the Pre- 
Rap'iaelite style of art. Ho is also known 
as a poet and translator. Some of his 
poems are exceedingly beautiful. 



MY SISTER'S SLEEP. 

She fell asleep on Christmas eve: 
At length, the long ungranted shade 

Of weary eyelids overweighed 
The pain naught else might yet relieve. 

Our mother, who had leaned all day 
Over, the bed from chime to chime, 
Then raised herself for the first time, 

And as she sat her down, did pray. 

H sr little table near was spread 
With work to fluisli. For the glare 
Made by her candle, she had care 

To work some distance from the bed. 

Without, there was a cold moon up. 
Of Winter radiance, sheer and thia: 
The hollow halo it was in 

Was like an icy, crystal cup. 

Through the small room, with subtle 
sound 
Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove 
And reddened. In its dim alcove 

The mirror shed a clearness round. 

I had been sitting up some nights. 
And ray tired mind felt weak and blank ; 
Like a sharp, strengthening wine, it 
drank 

The stillness and the broken lights. 

Twelve struck. That sound, by dwind- 
ling years 
Heard in each hour, crept off; and then 
The ruQled silence spread again, 

Like water that a pebble stirs. 

Our mother rose from where she sat: 
Her needles, as she laid them down, 
Met lightly, and her silken gown 

Settled; no other noise than that. 

" Glory unto the Newly Born ! " 
So, as said angels, she did say; 
Because we were in Christmas Day, 

Though it would still be long till morn. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



81 



Just then, in the room over us, 
There was a pushing back of chairs. 
As some who had sat unawares 

Si) late, now heai'd the hour, and rose. 

With anxious, softly-stepping haste. 
Our mother went where Margaret lay, 
Fearing the sounds o'erhead — should 
tiiey 

Have brolien her long watched-for rest. 

She stooped an instant, calm, and turned; 

But suddenly turned back again; 

And all her features seemed in pain 
Wiih woe,and her eyes gazed and yearned. 

For my part, I but hid my face, 
And held my breath, and spoke no 

word ; 
There was none spoken ; but I heard 

The silence for a little space. 

Our mother bowed herself and wept; 
And both my arms fell, and I said, 
"God knows I knew that she was 
dead." 

And there, all whitei, my sister slept. 

Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn, 
A little after twelve o'clock, 
We said, ere the first quarter struck, 

' Christ's blessing on the newly born ! " 



JOSEPH BRENAN". 

1828—1857. 
Joseph Brenan was born November 17, 
1828, in Cork, Ireland. In boyhood he 
exhibited singular gifts of fancy; and, 
at an early age, wrote in prose^ and verse 
with facility and taste, and spoke with 
eloqueiice at debating societies. " Young 
Ii'eland " inflamed iiis enthusiasm, and 
he removed to Dublin in 1848, just in time 
to prove himself acceptable as a contrib- 
utor to the leading revolutionary organs. 
The United [rishman, The Irish Tribune, 
and The Irish Felon, before their seizure 
by the government. On the suspension 
of the habeas corpus, Mr. Brenan was ar- 
rested in the west of Ireland, and held 
in prison, without trial, tor some nine 



months. During and after his incarcera- 
tion he wrote for the Irishman; but fur- 
ther revolutionary efforts proving useless, 
he left Ireland, and arrived in New York 
in October, 1849. In the United States he 
pursued the career of a journalist, lec- 
tured, contributed a paper on "Theo- 
ries of Evil," and some poems to the 
American Whig Review, and having mar- 
ried Miss Mary Savage, in August, 1851, 
removed to New Orleans on an engage- 
ment with the Delta of that city. Hav- 
ing been prostrated, and rendered tem- 
porarily blind by yellow fever, he spent 
some months of 1851 in New York, during 
which he contributed, in prose and verse, 
to the Citizen; also a bitter article on the 
foreign vote during the "Know Nothing" 
excitement, to the United States Ueview. 
Resuming his position in New Orleans, 
where his brilliant abilities were highly 
appreciated, he died, highly regretted, 
on the 17th of May, 1857. 



DIRGE FOR DEVIN REILLY. 

"When the day has come, darling, that 
your darling must go 

From the scene of his struggles, of his 
pride and his woe,— 

Lay him on a liillside, with his feet to the 
dew, 

Where the soul of the verdure is faintly 
stealing through— 

On the slope of a hill, with his face to the 
light. 

Which glows upon the dawn, and glori- 
fies the night; 

For the grand old mother Nature is might- 
ier than death. 

The subtle Irish soul, of which the beau- 
tiful is breath; 

Which nestles and dreams in the solemn 
sounding trees. 

And flings out its locks to tlie rapture of 
the breeze. 

And 'twill crave for God's wonders, from 
the daisy star close by, 

To the golden scroll which sparkles with 
His scripture in the sky." 



82 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



God rest you, Deviii Reilly, in the place of 
your choice, 

Where the bless ed dew is falling, and the 
flowers have a voice; 

Where the conscious trees are bending in 
homage to the dead, 

And the earth is swelling upward, like a 
pillow for your head; 

And His rest wUl be with you, for the 
lonely seeming grave, 

Though a dungeon to the coward, is a 

palace to the brave- 
Though a black Inferno circle, where the 
recreant are bound, 

Is a brave Valhalla pleasure dome where 
heroes are crowned; 

Oh ! His rest will be with you, in the con- 
gress of the great. 

Who are purified by sorrow, and are vic- 
tors over fate; 

Oh, God's rest will be with you, in the 
corridors of Fame. 

Which were jubilant with welcome, when 
Death called out your name. 

Way among the heroes, for another hero 
soul ! 

Boom for a spirit which has struggled to 
its goal I 

Rise, for in life he was faithful to his faith, 

And entered without stain 'neath the por- 
tico of death ; 

And his fearless deeds around, like attend- 
ing angels stand, 

Claiming recognition from the noble and 
the grand; 

Claiming to his meed— who from fresh 
and bounding youth, 

To the days of manly trial, was truthful 
to the truth — 

The welcome of the hero, whose foot 
would not give way, 

Till his trenchant sword was shivered in 
the fury of the fray; 

And grand will be that welcome, if the 
Devin gods above 

Can love with but a tithe of an humble 
mortal love 1 

" Lay me on a hillside, with my feet to 
the dew, 



Where the lite of the verdure is faintly 
stealing through; 

On the slope of a hill, with my face to the 
light 

Which glows upon the dawn, and glori- 
fies the night;" 

Would it were a hillside in the land of the 
Gael, 

Where the dew falls like teardrops, and 
the wind is a wail; 

Where the winged superstitions are gleam- 
ing through the gloom, 

Like a iiost of frighted Fairies, to beautify 
the tomb, 

On the slope of a hill, with your face to 
the sky 

Which clasped you, like a blessing, in the 
days gone by; 

When your hopes were as radiant as the 
stars of the night. 

And the reaches of the future throbbed 
with constellated light. 

Have you seen the mighty tempest, in its 

war cloak of cloud, 
When it stalks through the midnight, so 

defiant and proud ; 
When 'tis shouldering the ocean, till the 

croucliing waters fly 
From the thunder of its voice, and the 

lightning of its eye; 
And the waves, in timid multitudes, are 

rushing to the strand, 
In a vain appeal for succor from the buf- 
fets of its hand; 
Then you saw the soul of Reilly, when, 

abroad in its might. 
It dashed aside, with loathing, all the 

creatures of the night; 
Till the plumed hosts were humbled, and 

their crests, white no more, 
Were soiled with the sand, and strewn 

upon the shore; 
For the volumed swell of thunder was 

concentrated in his form. 
And his tread was a conquest, and his 

blow was like a storm. 

Have you seen a weary tempest, when a 
harbor is near. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



And Its giant Dreast i8 heaving from tlie 

speed of its career; 
How it puts off its terrors, and is timor- 
ous and weal^, 
And it stoops totlie waters, witli its cheek 

to their cheel^; 
As it broods, like a lover, over all the quiet 

place. 
Till the dimpling smiles of pleasure are 

eddying in its trace? 
Then you saw the soul of Reilly, when, 

ceasing to roam 
It flung away the clouds, and nestled to 

its home; 
When the heave and swell were ended, 

and the spirit was at rest. 
And gentle thoughts, like white-winged 

birds, were dreaming on its breast; 
And the tremulous sheets of sunset, 

around its couch were rolled, 
[n voluptuous festooning of purple lined 

with gold. 

Oil ! sorrow on the day when our young 

apostle died. 
When the lonely grave was opened for 

our darling and our pride; 
When the passion of a people was follow- 
ing the dead, 
Like a solitary mourner, with a bowed 

uncovered head; 
When a nation's aspirations were .-toop- 

ing o'er the dust; 
When the golden bowl was broken, and 

the trenchant sword was rust; 
When the brave tempestuous spirit, with 

an upward wing had passed. 
And the love of the wife was a widow's 

love at last; 
Oh! God rest you, Devin Reilly, in the 

shadow of that love. 
And God bless you with His bliss, in the 

pleasure-dome above, 
When the heroes are assembled, and the 

very angels bow 
To the glory of eternity, which glimmers 

on each brow. 

"Lay me on a hillside, with my feet to 
the dew. 



Where the life of the verdure is faintly 

stealing through; 
On the slope of a hill, with my face to the 

light. 
Which glows upon the dawn, and glori- 
fies the night:" 
Would it were a hillside in the land of the 

Gael. 
Where the dew falls like teardrops, and 

the wind is a wail — 
Where the winged superstitions are 

gleaming through the gloom. 
Like a host of frighted fairies, to beautify 

the tomb I 
On the slope of a hill, with your face to 

the sky. 
Which clasped you like a blessing in the 

days gone by ; 
When your hopes were as radiant as the 

stars of the night. 
And the reaches of the future throbbed 

with constellated light. 



COME TO ME, DEAREST. 

Come to me, dearest, I'm lonely without 

thee. 
Day-time and night-time I'm dreaming 

about thee. 
Night-time and day-time in dreams I be- 
hold thee. 
Unwelcome the waking that ceases to 

fold thee; 
Come to me, dearest, my sorrow to 

lighten. 
Come in thy beauty to bless and to 

brighten. 
Come in thy womanhood, meekly and 

lowly, 
Come in thy lovingness, queenly and 

holy. 

Swallows shall flit round the desolate 
ruin. 

Telling of Spring and its joyous renew- 
ing; 

And thoughts of thy love and its mani- 
fest treasure 

Are circling my heart with the primrose 
of pleasure. 



84 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



Oh, spring of my spirit ! Oh, May of my 

bosom ! 
Shine out on my soul till it burgeon and 

blossom ; 
Tlie waste of my life has a rare root 

within it, 
And thy fondness alone to the sunliglit 

can win it. 

Figure which moves like a song through 

the even, 
Features lit up with a reflex of heaven ; 
Eyes like the skies of sweet Erin, our 

mother, 
Where sunshine and shadow are chasing 

each other; 
Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and 

simple. 
And opening their eyes from the heart of 

a dimple; 
Oh I thanks to the Saviour that even the 

seeming 
Is left to the exile to brighten his dream- 
ing. 

You have been glad when you knew I 

was gladdened : 
Dear, are you sad to know I am sad- 
dened ? 
Our hearts ever answer in tune and in 

time, love. 
As octave to octave or rhyme unto rhyme, 

love. 
I can not smile, but your cheeks will be 

glowing; 
You can not weep, but my tears will be 

flowing; 
You will not linger when I shall have 

died, love; 
And I could not live without you by my 

side, love. 

Come to me, dearest, ere I die of my sor- 
row; 

Rise on my gloom like the sun of to- 
morrow; 

Strong, swift and true as the works 
which I speak, love; 

With a song on your lip and a smile on 
your cheek, love; 



Come, for my heart in your absence is 

dreary; 
Haste, for my spirit is sickened and 

weary; 
Come to my arnjs which alone shall caress 

thee; 
Come to the lieart that is throbbing to 

press thee. 

JOHN SAVAGE. 

1828 . 

John Savage was born December 18, 
18'38, in the city of Dublin. He was edu- 
cated at a leading academy, with a view 
of entering Trinity College; but, having 
displayed a taste for the fine arts, entered 
instead the Schools of Art of the Royal 
Dublin Society, with the intention of be- 
coming an artist. In this sphere he suc- 
ceeded well, but the Revolution of '48 
coming on, he espoused his country's 
cause. This cause being lost, he came to 
America, and followed journalism until 
his appointment to the clerkship of the 
Marine Court in New York City. His 
writings are voluminous, and cover a 
variety of subjects. His finest work is 
generally thought to be " Sybil : a 
Drama." 



GAME LAWS. 
As through the crouching underwood the 

wild boar madly came. 
With lashing tail and gleaming tusks, 

stiff mane and eye of flame. 

Through golden crops, through tangled 
copse, he fiercely plunging tore. 

All seemed but withered fibres to the 
rage-expanding boar. 

Through leafy screen and rough ravine, 
through lane and plain the brute 

Makes head, and in the cotter's field at 
last eludes pursuit. 

"Ho ! Hans, be quick; take in the child- 
bring out my trusty gun." 

Hans fled and came, the cotter fired — the 
wild boar's race was run. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 85 


But woe ! alas, what came to pass, the 


Throbs like a student's where no greed or 


forest-ranger saw 


malice is— 


The deed, and shot the cotter down— to 


Youth has no danger its Truth can not 


make him "keep the law." 


dare. 


Herr GraflE and staff, feast, laugh, and 


Music's ineffable power, in mild throb- 


quaff that night with beakers red: 


bings, 


The cotter's home is desolate— its head, 


Lures my lay-loving heart till I beseech 


its heart lies dead. 


Silence— to eagerly voice my soul's wild 


'Tis royal sport for king and court to hunt 


sobbings- 


the grizzly boar ; 


Love has no fantasy youth dare not 


But woe unto the poor man who dares 


reach. 


to hunt him at his door. 






Blending the radiance is one that I pine 
after ! 
Vision ! for which bardic cavaliers 


A REVERY IN REVELRY. 


I. 


bleed ! 


How joyously their steps keep time 


See her dark bright eyes— they tearfully 


To music in the dance. 


shine— after 


Like happy words to bounding rhyme 


Asking her heart if it will not be freed. 


That sound and sense enhance: 




How gloriously the young blood flows, 


Ethel the tender, and Ethel the truthful 


And eyes the hearts unfold ! 


heart ! 


The mirth that in their being glows 


Oh ! how I love thee lives not on my 


Tells me I'm growing old. 


tongue. 


IL 

The scene recalls my merry youth, 
Its innocence and bliss. 


Life of my loneliness— death of my youth- 


ful heart, 
Ethel the maidenly, modest and young ! 


The song, the dance, the gushing truth. 


Oh, let me, love, be thy life's hardy mar- 


The magic touch and kiss ! 


inere, 


Oh, who'd not give the wealth of years 


Guiding thy fragile bark o'er its wild 


For youth's uncounted gold ! 


sea, 


Their laughing eyes fill mme with tears— 


Cresting the breakers that foam in wrath 


I feel I'm growing old. 


far and near. 


IIL 


Crowning the prow that's a shelter for 


I love to see them blend their days, 


thee. 


With joys— that fade too soon, 




While they, alas ! but count delays 


Oh ! let me, love, be thy life's hardy for- 


From opening May to June: 


ester. 


December quickly comes— and then, 


Clearing the jungles that tangle earth's 


Like me, they'll feel it cold. 


way— 


And wish youth's radiant robes again. 


And conquering peace be thy minstrel 


As they are growing old. 


and chorister. 




Chanting in homage our love's endless 
day. 


YOUTH'S RHAPSODY. 


Wildly I wander through love-builded 


Pathless I tread like an islanded cast- 


palaces. 


away. 


Where my heart, stranger to temples so 


Strong with the promptings of Hope 


fair. 


on my breath, 



86 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



Chasing the future, and hurling the past 
away, 
Wooing what one word may make life 
or death. 

Oh 1 let me worship thee — oh ! let me 
cling to thee, 
Like some idolatrous child of the wood ! 
Let ray youth's sacrifice, dear Ethel, bring 
to thee 
All the wild truth that now maddens 
ray blood. 

Ethel the tender, and Ethel the truthful 
heart ! 
Oh ! how I love thee my voice can not 
sing- 
Life of my longing eyes— death of my 
youthful heart, 
Ethel, the symbol of promise and 
Spring 1 

Will you not love me ? Love with joy- 
ance tender as 
Thouglits that stir echoes in this heart 
of mine ? 
Will you not cling to me, graceful and 
slender, as 
Bound its strong staple the juice-laden 
vine ? 

Will you not temper ray brain's frenzied 
madness, love ? 
Will you not spiritize Thought's subtle 
fire— 
Coax me from sadness, love — kiss me to 
gladness, love- 
Bless me, and twine thy rich love witli 
my lyre ? 

Ethel the tender, and Ethel the truthful 
heart ! 
How I adore thee my harp can not sing. 
Pulse of my aching breast— death of my 
youthful heart, 
Ethel, my symbol of promise and 
Spring I 



MIND— A LABOR CHANT. 

fNearly twenty years ago, the Democratic 
Review hailed the followinfr Labor Chant as a 
powerful poem, In which Mr. Savage's sympa- 
thy with the cause of the down-trodden millions 



was nobly expressed. It Is very applicable at 
the present time, when the labor movement la 
attracting such attention.] 

Ringers on the chiming anvil, 

Tillers of the soil. 
Men of nerve and sweated brows, 

Men of truth and toil, 
Levelers of primeval forests. 

Craftsmen of the city, 
Here's a chant— a labor chant! 
Chorus now ray ditty. 
Brothers, here's my heart, and hand, too : 

Ev'ry vein is for my kind ; 
What is wealth if it should part you. 
With its whisperings so golden, 
(As deceitful as 'tis olden) 
From that only God-found palace. 
Where, from Learning's crystal chalice, 
Draughts ye mighty stoups of Mind. 

Men of brawny bone and sinew. 

Honest toil and craft ; 
Men whose homely brows are sun- 
dyed. 
Toiling on life's raft, 
Down the wild sea of existence, 

Truthful more than witty ; 
Here's a chant of sweet resistance ; 
Cliorus now ray ditty : 
Brothers, if you mean to lift your 
Trusty heads among your kind, 
Aid the giant. Thought, to shift your 
Lives upon the way of Knowledge- 
Learning's road is free of tollage — 
And with shouts an hundred hundred 
Has the Age's spirit thundered. 
Rulers can not chain the Mind. 

Men whose only mace and sabre 

Are the scythe and sledge ; 
Men whose corded sinews labor 

At the wheel or wedge ; 
Men who love the earned prize, 

Who scorn the rich man's pity ; 
Here's a chant ! come, chorus rise 
And swell aloud my ditty : 
Brothers, earth would be a dismal. 
Barren, wretched place designed. 
If it had not Nature's prismal 

Sunlight, light'uin;' as it dallies 
O'er the hillsides and the valleys ; 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



87 



But more barren, gloomy, scopeless. 

Is the heart whose vales lie hopeless, 

Unlit by the Sun of Mind ! 



CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. 

1830 . 

Christina Gr. Rossetti was born In Lon- 
don in 1830, and still resides in that city. 
She is the author of "Goblin Market and 
Other Poems," and "The Prhice's Pro 
gress and Other Poems," both collections 
being comprised in the volume of her 
poems published in this country. She 
has also written a volume of prose stories 
for children, called " Commonplace and 
Other Stories," and a book of nursery 
rhymes, called " Sing-Song." 



WHEN I AM DEAD. 

When I am dead, my dearest. 

Sing no sad songs for me ; 
Plant thou no roses at my head, 

Nor shady cypress tree. 
Be tlie green grass above me, 

With showers and dewdrops wet ; 
And if thou wilt, remember, 

And if thou wilt, forget. 

I shall not see the shadows, 

I shall not feel the rain ; 
I shall not hear the nightingale 

Sing on as if in pain. 
And, dreaming through the twilight. 

That doth not rise nor set, 
Haply I may remember. 

Haply I may forget. 



HUSBAND AND WIFE. 

"Oh, kiss me once before I go, 
To make amends for sorrow, 

Oh, kiss me once before we part. 
Who will not meet to-morrow. 

"And I was wrong to urge your will» 
And wrong to mar your life ; 

But kiss me once before we part, 
Because you are my wife." 



She turned away and tossed her head 

And puckered up her brow ; 
"I never kissed you yet," she said, 

" And I'll not kiss you now. 

"Tho' I'm your wife by might and right 
And forsworn marriage vow, 

I never loved you yet," said she, 
" And I don't love you now." 

So he went sailing on the sea. 

And she sat crossed and dumb, 
Willie he went sailing on the sea. 

Where the wild storm- winds come. 

He'd been away a month and a day, 
Conning from morn to morn : 

And m my buds had turned to leaves, 
And many lambs were born. 

And many buds had turned to flowers, 
I For Spring was in a glow. 
When slie was laid upon her bed. 
As wnite and cold as snow. 

" Oh, let me kiss my baby once ; 

Just once before I die ; 
And bring it sometimes to my grave 

To teach it where I lie. 

" And tell my husband, when he comes 
S;.fe home from o'er the sea. 

To love the baby that I leave, 
If ever he loved me. 

"And tell him, not for might or right 
Or forsworn marriage vow, 

But for the helpless baby's sake, 
I would have kissed him now." 



WEARY IN WELL DOING. 

I would have gone ; God bade me stay ; 

I would have worked ; God bade me rest. 
He broke my will from day to day, 

He read my yearnings unexpressed, 
And said them nay. 

Now I would stay ; God bids me go ; 

Now I would rest ; God bids me work. 
He breaks my heart, tossed to and fro. 

My soul is wrung with doubts that lurk, 
And vex it so. 



88 



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I go, Lord, where thou sendest me ; 

Day after day I plod and moil : 
But Christ ray God, wlien will it be 

That I may let alone my toil, 
And rest with Thee ? 



WILLIAM SETON. 

1836 . 

William Seton was born in New York 
City in 1836, and is a grandson of the cel- 
ebrated Mother Seton. He studied lor 
some years at Mt. St. Mary's College, Em- 
mittsburg, and completed his education 
at Bonn, Germany. He had been admit- 
ted to the bar when the war broke out, 
and he at once enlisted as a private, but 
soon rose to the rank of captain. He 
was twice severely wounded. He now 
resides in New York. The following is 
an extract from his poem, "The Pioneer:" 

AN OLD-TIME PICTURE. 

In the loveliest valley of New Hampshire, 
Hard by a stream whose fountain home 

is hid 
Among the laurel crags of Mount Kear- 

sarge, 
A cabin stood. Upon its sloping roof 
Old Time had spread the moss; its chim- 
ney leaned 
A little to the south, bent by the blasts. 
Which in the Winter months, with scarce 

a pause, 
Blew down with fury from the cold nor'- 

west. 
Under its eaves the martin's nest was 

hung; 
Tiie woodchuck had his den beneath the 

floor. 
Where generations of them came and 

went— 
Blessing a spot which was the haunt of 

peace. 
Around the acres which the axe had 

cleared 
The melancholy pines a circle formed. 
And in the clearing, 'iweea the stumps 

and stones, 



Josiah Willey raised his scanty crop 

Of corn and pumpkins, blunting many a 

hoe, 
And often wondering how he ever came 
To settle in the sh'adow of tlae hill. 
Yet was Josiah, in his faithful spouse. 
Blest with a treasure such as few men 

find. 
Her temper kindly, and her willing hand 
Was never idle from a lack of health; 
Broom, churn and spinning-wheel, the 

live-long day. 
Kept steady chorus to her tuneful voice; 
And in the evenings, when his work was 

done. 
She'd placed her "specs" upon her droop- 
ing nose. 
And read him off to sleep with Holy 

Writ; 
Then rouse him from his dream with 

some sweet hymn, 
Which would recall the day when first 

they met — 
A Sabbath in the choir at Intervale. 
And as a cherished flower grows more 

fair. 
And blooms each season with a sweeter 

breath. 
So, with the passing years Josiah thought 
His mate more beautiful than in her 

teen's; 
For when a soul to soul is truly wed. 
There is no ending of the honey-moon. 

DANIEL CONNOLLY. 

1836 — . 

Daniel Connolly was born in Belleek, 
County Fermanagh, Ireland, in 1836. At 
the age of fifteen he came to the United 
States, and he has since been a resident 
of New York. His first newspaper work 
was done during the late war, when he 
furnished the New York Daily News with 
correspondence from Washington and 
Virginia. After the war, he became asso- 
ciate editor of the Metropolitan Record, 
which had been established several years 
before as a Catholic paper, with the sanc- 
1 tion of Archbishop Hughes. In 1872 he 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



89 



gave up journalism as a regular calling, 
in order to engage in business, but did 
not abandon it wholly. His poems, 
written at leisure times, would make a 
goodly volume, but they have not been 
collected. 



TROUT FISHING. 
By winding paths and mossy lanes, 
All fringed with clover, flower and 
berry. 
We pass, nor pause to note the sirains 
Of woodland warblers, blithe and 
merry ; 
Our thoughts are bent on cast and play, 
We hardly heed the splendors o'er 
us, 
But haste with quickening steps away 
To reach the glorious sport before us. 

With lisping, low-voiced monotone 

The brook flows by in curves and sal- 
lies. 
And bears its rippling music down 

To daisied slopes and verdant valleys. 
The favorite spot we seek is found, 

A sheltered nook where elves might 
gambol, 
Or joyous sprites move merrily round 

In moonlit dance or midnight ramble. 

Soft winds blow down from ridge and 
grove, 
Where balsam boughs are gently sway- 
ing, 
And round a silvery beech above. 
Two heedless squirrels are briskly play- 
ing. 
Through branching pines the sunlight 
falls 
Like grains of gold on emerald sifted, 
And near the cleft and towering walls 
Of ledge and cliff to heaven are lifted. 

charmed spot, so cool and calm, 
sweet retreat from strife's pulsation, 

Where sound is one perpetual psalm. 
And every note an inspiration ! 

What seek we here of harrowing care. 
Of toil or trade, or mart or manners, 

Wbile round us in the soft, sweet air 



Peace dreams on Nature's leafy ban- 
ners? 

But now, to work with rod and line. 

And dainty flies on trusty leader; 
We'll take the first au8i)icious sign 

And cast below yon slanting cedar. 
Again with feathery touch the flies 

Dance lightly over pool and shallow, 
And, darting through reflected skies, 

The wary trout retreat or follow. 

Along the grassy marge we go, 

Now listening to the tall pines moan- 
ing, 
Now catching from a glade below 

A drowsy mill's perpetual droning; 
Still on; the miller's brown faced boy 

Stands knee deep in the shming water, 
And near, with startled glance and coy. 

The miller's comely, dark-eyed daugh- 
ter. 

So, through the long, bright balmy day, 
In varying shade and sunshine rang- 
ing. 
We speed the hastening hours away 
Where sound and scene are ever chang- 
ing, 
Till all the hills are dashed with gold 
That pales and dims eve's dawning 
crescent. 
And twilight falls on field and wold 
Like veihng gauze o'er forms quiescent. 

Soft, soothing calm of Summer woods, 
Of streams that chant in rythmic num- 
bers. 
Of fragrant, flowery solitudes. 
Where rest alternate sings and slum- 
bers, 
Full oft to thee doth fancy take 
Her airy flight from burdened high- 
ways. 
To roam again by brook and lake. 
Or dream in leafy paths and byways. 



THREE SONNETS. 

I.- Goldsmith. 
As beams a perfect, restful, mellow day, 
Bipe in the golden harvest of the year, 



90 



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While all the mystic, dreamy atmos- 
phere 
Breathes spices from bright garden 

places, gay 
With rarest flowers; and fragrant scents 
of hay. 
New-mown in misty meadows; and 

anear 
Are orchard fruits, and grain that 
droops in ear 
O'erburdened, and o'er all soft zephyrs 

play;— 
So spreads the charm of thy pure thought 
and song. 
Kind, gentle, simple friend of all man- 
kind. 
O'er every heart that loves the true and 
good; 
And as we fondly follow thee along 
Through ways of tuneful tenderness, 

we find 
Mild, balmy peace, where care does not 
intrude. 

TL— Mangan. 

Once in the Summer time, while wander- 
ing 
Through spaces of dim solitude, I 

strayed 
Upon a broolJ that murmured in the 
shade 
Of sighing pines, and hastened on to 

sing 
Through glades where sunshine never 
came, then fling 
Its wounded breast against rude rocks, 

emfrayed 
By all the turmoil that the poor brook 
made, 
And heedless of its plaintive suffering. 
And then I thought of thee, sad poet 
soul, 
Wandering in sorrowful and gloomy 

ways. 
But singing still, because thy heart was 
full 
Of melody and rich with tuneful dole. 
In sunless glades of hfe were spent thy 

days, 
And only asphodel 'twas thine to cull. 



III.— MOORB. 

Of all sweet singers in our ranks of song. 
Rarest and brightest and most dear thou 

art, 
Glad, glowing, gentle minstrel of the 
Iieart, 
To whom joy's warmest attributes belong. 
Around thee at the shrine of hymen 
throng 
The loves and graces feeling each the 

smart 
That follows wounds by Cupid's cun- 
ning dart. 
Yet bold thou wert as well, when Erin's 

wrong 
Touched the keen chords that trembled 
in thy breast; 
Then could the master hand that softly 

swept 
The harp to tender lays strike strains of 
fire. 
Thine was the voice melodious that ad- 
dressed 
The greatest and the lowliest, and kept 
Hope breathing still in love's and free- 
dom's lyre. 



THE LEAP FOR LIFE, 

AN EPISODE IN THE CARKER OF MARSHAL MAC- 
MAHON. 

In Algeria, with Bugeaud, 
Harassed by a crafty foe. 
Where the French, in eighteen hun- 
dred thirty-one; 
Swarthy Arabs prowled about 
Camp and outpost and redoubt. 
Crouching here, and crawling there, 
Lurking, gliding every-where. 
Tiger-hearted, under stars and under 
sun. 
Seeking by some stealthy chance 
Vengeance on the troops of France- 
Vengeance fierce and fell, to sate 
Savage rage and savage hate 
For the deeds of desolation harshly 
done. 

On a rugged plateau, 
Forty miles from liead-quarterB of Mar- 
shal Bugeaud, 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



91 



Lay an outpost, besieged by the merciless 

foe. 
Day by day close and closer the Arab 
lines drew, 
Round the hard-beset French. 

To dash out and flash through. 

Like a wind-driven flame, they would 
dare, thougii a host 

Hot from Hades stood there. But aban- 
don the post? 

Nay, they dare not do that : they were sol- 
diers of France, 

And dishonor shall stain neither sabre nor 
lance; 

They could bravely meet death, though 
like Hydra it came. 

Horror-headed and dh-e, but no shadow 
of shame 

For a trust left to perish when danger 
drew nigh 

Should e'er dim the flag waving free to 
the sky. 

But soon came a terror more dread to the 
soul 

Than war's wild thunder-crash, when its 
b.ittle-clouds roll. 

And the heavens are shrouded from sight 
while a glare. 

As of hell, breaks in hot, lurid streams on 
the air ! 

It was Famine, grim-visaged and gaunt, 
To the camp most appalling of fues— 
Slow to strike, slow to kill, but full sure 
As the swift headsman's deadliest blows, 
O'er the ramparts it sullenly strode. 
Glided darkly by tent and by wall, 
Spreading awe whersoever it went, 
And the gloom of dismay over all; 

Bligiiting valor that ne'er in war's red 
front had quailed, 

Blanching cheeks that no tempest of strife 
e'er had paled. 

Then a council was held, and the coqi- 

mandant said 
Direst peril was near: they must summon 

swift aid 
From the Marshal, or all would be lost 

ere the suu 



Of to-morrow went down in the west. 

Was there one 
Who, to save the command and the honor 

of France, 
Would ride forth with despatches? He 

ceased, and a glance 
At the bronzed faces near showed that 

spirits to dare 
Any desperate deed under heaven were 

there. 
But the first to arise and respond was a 

youth 
Whose brow bore nature's signet of cour- 
age and truth. 
In whose eye valor shone calm and clear 

as a star 
When the winds were at rest, and the 

clouds fade afar. 
Who was he that stood forth with such 

resolute air? 
Young Lieutenant MacMahon, bold, free 

deionnaire. 
Never knight looked more gallant with 

shield and with spear. 
Never war-nurtured chieftain less con- 
scious of fear. 
In his mien was the heroic flash of the 

Gaul, 
With the hre of the Celt giving grandeur 

to all: 
And he said, head erect, face with ardor 

aglow, 
'•I will ride with dispatches to Marshal 

Bugeaud ! " 

It is night, and a stillness profound 
Folds the camp; Arabs stealthily creep 
Here and there in the moonlight be- 
yond, 
With ears eagerly bent for a sound 
From the garrison, watchful and weak; 
O'er the ten s welcome night breezes 

sweep. 
Bringing balm unto brow and to cheek 
Of men, scorched by a [lililess sun 
To a hue almost swartiiy and deep 
As the hue of the foe they would shun. 

Stretching dimly afar. 
Between slopes that are rugged and bare, 



93 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



Half obscure under moonbeam and star, 
Half revealed in the soft, misty air, 
Runs a rude, broken way that will lead 
Gallant rider and sure-footed steed 
Westward forth to the camp of Bugeaud, 
Forty miles over high land and low; 
But the steed must be trusty and fleet. 
And the bridle hand steady and keen 
That shall guide him by rock and ravine, 
Where each stride of the galloping feet 
Must span dangers that slumber unseen ; 
And beyond, scarce a league to the west, 
Yawns a treacherous chasm, dark and 

deep, 
Where death lurks like a serpent asleep, 
And the rider must ride at his best, 
And his steed take the terrible leap 
Like a winged creature cleaving the air, 
Else a grim, ghastly corpse shall be 

there, 
With perchance a steed stark on its 

breast, 
And the moon shall look down with a 

stare 
Where they lie in perpetual rest. 

Now the silence is broken by neigh and 
by champ 

And the clatter of hoofs, and away from 
the camp 

Rides MacMahon, as gallant, as light and 
as free 

As the bridegroom who goes to his mar- 
riage may be. 

With prance and with gallop and gay 
caracole 

His steed bounds along, as if spurning 
control ; 

But the bridle-hand guides him unerring 
and true. 

And each stroke of the hoofs is thew 
answering thew. 

Through the moonlight they go, fading 
slowly from sight, 

Till both rider and steed sink away in the 
night. 

But they go not unheard, and they speed 
not unseen; 

Dark eyes furtively watch, flashing fierce- 
ly and keen 



From dim ambush around; then like 

spectres arise 
White-robed figures that follow: the rider 

descries 
Them on slope and in hollow, and knows 

they pursue. 
But he fears not their craft or the deeds 

they may do, 
For his brave steed is eager and strong, 

and the pace 
Growing faster and faster each stride of 

ihe chase. 
Now the slopes right and left seem alive 

with the foe 
Gliding ghost-like along, but still stealthy 

and low. 
As wild creatures that crouch in a jungle; 

they think 
To entrap him when back from the ter- 
rible brink 
Of the chasm he returns, for his steed can 

not leap 
The dread gulf, and the rider will halt 

when its steep 
Rugged walls ope before him, with death 

lying deep 
In the darkness below; they will seize 

him and take 
From his heart, by fell torture of fagot 

and stake 
Every secret he holds; then his life-blood 

may flow. 
But he never shall ride to the camp of 

Bugeaud. 

Still unflinching and free through the 
moonlight he goes, 

And each pulse with the hot flush of 
eagerness glows. 

Now a glance at the path where his gal- 
lant steed flies. 

Now a gleam at the weird, spectral forms 
that arise 

On the dim, rugged slopes, then still on- 
ward and on, 

Till he nears the abyss, and its gaping 
jaws yawn 

On his sight; but the rider well knows it 
is there, 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



And his speed is soon cautiously checlted 

to prepare 
For tlie desperate leap; he must now put 

to proof 
The true mettle beneatli, for the slip of a 

hoof, 
Or a swerve on the brinlf, will dash both 

into doom. 
Where the sad stars shall watch over a 

cavernous tomb. 
Girth and bridle and stirrup are felt, to 

be sure 
That no flaw shall bring peril— and all is 

secure ; 
Then with eyes fixed before, and brow 

bent to the wind, 
And one thought of the foe and his com- 
rades behind, 
And a low, earnest prayer that all Heaven 

must heed, 
He slacks bridle, plies spur, and gives 

head to his steed. 
With a bound it responds, ears set back, 

nostrils wide, 
And the rush of a thunder-bred storm in 

its stride 1 
Now the brink ! now the leap ! they are 

over ! Hurrah 1 
Horse and rider are safe, and dash wildly 

away; 
Not a slip, not a flinch, swift and sure as 

the flight 
Of an eagle in mid-air, they sweep 

through the night, 
While the baffled foe glare in bewildered 

amaze 
At the fast-flying prey speeding far from 

their gaze; 
And the soft stars grow dim in the dawn's 

early glow 
Wlien MacMahon rides into the camp of 

Bugeaud. 



TIMOTHY E. HOWARD. 

1837 ■ 

Timothy E. Howard was born near 
Ann Arbor, Mich., January 27, 1837. He 
studied at the public schools and at 



the University of Michigan, completing 
his college course at the University of 
Notre Dame. He enlisted in 1862, in the 
12lh Michigan Volunteers, and soon after 
was so severely wounded as to necessitate 
his discharge. Upon graduating at Notre 
Dame, he was engaged as a member of 
the faculty, and continued in that capac- 
ity until the Fall of 1880, when he was 
elected Clerk of the St. Joseph County 
Circuit Court. He resides in South Bend, 
Ind. 



THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

With just the faintest chill of death, 

The full fair Indian Summer comes; 
By morning draped in hoary breath, 

Her noonday robes of strange perfumes. 
At even trailing weird-like shades, 

O'er midnight still her beauty looms, 
As ever, through fields and opening 
glades. 

She drives the dark November glooms. 

Not yet, she cries to the Winter wind. 
Not yet, to the frosty starlight clear. 

Not yet, to the north.ern snows that blind. 
Not yet, not yet, while I linger near ! 

How vain the cold, cold phantoms surge, 
Wliile the Queen of Autumn shakes 
her spear. 

And smiles despite their mournful dirge- 
Last, lovely smile of the dying year ! 

Fair image of life's departing hour, 

When days well spent have brought 
the soul 
To smile supreme at the utmost power 

That fiend or phantom can control ! 
Then smile, thou trusting soul, erect, 

Though death's dark shades begin to 
roll, 
Tliat fading hour for thee is flecked 

With flashes from the spirit's goal 1 



FINE DAYS IN MARCH. 
How soon we glide to Summer's balmy 



prime 



To-day is redolent of airs of June, 



94 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



We've bounded o'er the Spring days' 
chilly time, 
And passed from bracing frosts to 
drowsy noon. 

'Tis but a few short days I walked the 
lake, 
And now the waters ripple on the 
shore. 
Save, here and there, their dashings 
nunbly break 
Along the icy shoals in crumbling roar. 

The enamored sun sends down his hazy 
beams 
To kiss the new-born waves and glass 
his form 
Where bright they roll, and the dimpled 
blue but seems 
His loved ethereal from heaven warm. 

The awkward woods are hushed in 
strange suspense, 
As though their wildered forms had 
roused too late; 
And the silent birds slow hop from 
branch to fence, 
And peering wonder why this Summer 
state ! 

And e'en tiie curious eye of reason turns 
To seek (he fragrance-breathing mead- 
ow lands, 
The glittering streams, the hills where 
noonday burns, 
And forests, swelling green in giant 
bands,— 

The yellow-turning fields of waving 
wlieat, 
The dark green maize, now silvered by 
the breeze. 
Now drinking deep the sun's enriching 
heat — 
The clover wading herds, the shady 
trees,— 

The white-rowed mowers down the swelt- 
ering vale. 
The hay-load moving stately to the 
barn,— 



The pleasure-boat, with drowsy flapping 
sail,— 
All floating on as dreams of Summer's 
morn I 

But soon thebreatii of lion-hearted March 
Dispels the glowing vision, and a cliill 
Forebodes black days ere Summer's sun 
will parch. 
For the prince of bitter winds is with 
us still! 

REV. PATRICK CRONIN. 

1837 • 

Rev. Patrick Cronin was born near the 
vihage of Adare, Ireland, March 1, 1837. 
He came to the United States in 1^50; 
received his classical education at St. 
Louis University, and made his theolog 
leal and philosophical studies at St. Vin- 
cent's Seminary, Cape Girardeau, Mo. 
He was ordained in 1863, and has been 
stationed at St. Joseph's Cathedral, Buf- 
falo, since 1873, and since that time has 
edited the Catholic Union, a journal of 
large circulation and wide influence. In 
addition to his other duties, he frequently 
lectures. He has written many beautiful 
poems. 



PERE MARQUETTE. 

[Read at the Second Annual Meeting of the 
Marquette Monument Association at Mackinac, 
Michigan, August 8, 1879.] 

To this scene of sylvan glory. 
Rich in gray and dreamful story, 
Gather we, this August morning, 
'Mid the Summer's bright adorning ; 
While the woods, in fragrant leaf. 
Wave o'er fields of golden sheaf. 
And the wild flowers' rich perfume 
Mingles with the laurel's bloom, 
Wiiere the fresh'ning island breeze 

Sweeps along the dew-lit heather ; 
And the honey laden bees, 
From the sighing forest trees. 
By these blue and limpid waters,- 
Weird, as their once dusky daughters,- 

Sing a dreamy song together. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



95 



A devoted pilgrim lesion 
Come we to this gorgeous region, — 
To tliis greeu and lovely island, 
Sleeping sweetly 'mid the wild-land ; 

From our homes in distant tracts, 
Over lake and stream and river, 
Where the dark pines groan and pjiiver ; 
And the wrathful tempest, sweeping. 
Sends the torrent madly leaping 

Down the foaming cataracts. 

Hasten we from eastern city, 
With its tearful cries for pity. 
And its restless heart all throbbing. 
And its laugh and sigh and sobbing, 
And the Attic wit that flashes. 
And the pungent pen that lashes. 

There beside the Summer sea, 
While the rapid ringing hammer, 
And the whir of flying spindles. 
Wake a music that enkindles 
(While the turbulent grow calmer) 

Health and wealth and jubilee. 

From the land of rushing waters, 
Sturdy sons and bloomful daugliters ; 
Where the swelling western breeze 
Woos the fragrant forest trees, 

And the purple mountains rise. 
Over vales of golden plenty ; 
And the eagle from his eyrie 
Scans the broad and pathless prairie ; 
Come we with the joyous chorus 
Of the teeming West that bore us, 
For the grateful task before us. 

On which smile pi'opitious skies. 

And the Southron, tho' not here. 

Hath a generous emotion 

In our work of deep devotion ; 
For above the livid fear 

And the pallid consternation 

At the yellow desolation. 
South winds bear the tender tone 

That sweet sympathy discloses. 
And joy mingles with his moan 

In his sunny home of roses. 

But why do we gather thus proudly to- 
day. 

What grand thought awakes all this brill- 
iant display ? 



To honor a hero come we from afar. 

Whose brow is enwreathed with laurels 
of war ? 

Or come we to kneel round a sanctified 
shrine, 

Where angels keep watch with the stars 
as they shine ? 

Or rear the proud marble full high on 
this shore. 

And fling to the breeze a loved name ever- 
more ? 

Ah, yes ! 'tis a hero, all glorious, I trow. 

Whose cheek never blanched 'mid the 
darts of the foe ; 

Whose heart was as pure as the foam on 
the wave 

That chants his sad dirge round his yon- 
der lone grave. 

And throbbed but to lessen life's poor 
human woes. 

And make the dark wilderness bright as 
the rose. 

In him saint and scholar, explorer, com- 
bined— 
Whose deeds shall be blazoned on every 
wind ; 

The first who spoke peace on this land 
red with slaughters, 

And sang Christian songs o'er the Father 
of Waters— 

'Tis a name at whose sound swartliy 

cheeks have grown wet — 
"The Ottawa Angel," the sainted Mar- 
quette. — 
His fame shall endure, the proud boast of 

the West, 
To epic his story, our svpeetest behest. 

At old Laon, beside a mountain stream, 

In far, fair France, he dreamt his youth- 
ful dream ; 

Slender his lorm, and pale his beauteous 
face, 

His high-souled honor spoke a noble race. 

Young genius sparkles in those starry 
eyes. 

And deep devotion in their dark depths 
lies; 

Row fair is all, how sweet the world ap- 
pears. 



96 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



And bright the promise of the coming 
years ! 

Oh, great, grand soul ! e'en in life's fes- 
tive hours, 

Toljlist the Master's voice 'mid pleasure's 
bowers ; 

To see His beauty in awakening day, 

And view His mercy hi the moon's sweet 
ray ; 

To feel His power and vastness o'er the 
deep, 

And His dread wrath when fierce torna- 
does sweep ; 

Thy fresh young virgin heart He sought 
to gain ; 

Early He knocked, nor did He knock in 
vain. 

But thine own France— the fair land of 
the vine — 

Whose ev'ry glory swells that heart of 
thine — 

Shall ne'er be witness to thy deeds afar, 

Which dim the luster of those feats of 
war 

In which her Christian knight bore Mos- 
lem down, 

And rode triumphant thro' each crescent 
town. 

Oh, pale, pure priest ! from far beyond 

tlie wave, 
Tlie pitying angels beckon thee to save ; 
For there, amid a smiling paradise 
Of flowers and fruits and streams and 

sun-lit skies, 
The swarthy Indian broods in darkness 

lone, 
And demons rear their undisputed throne; 
And while the virgin vales in beauty sleep 
The guardian spirits of the wild- woods 

weep. 
Sure tbey will bear thee safely o'er the 

foam, 
And sooth thy heart, mid starlight dreams 

of home ; 
There the grand epic of thy life's young 

story 
Shall woo the muse and crown thy name 

in glory. 



Nor Spaniards sought the fabled Fount 

of Youth, 
Nor minstrel knight e'er sang his lady's 

ruth, 
Nor hungry miser in his greed for gold, 
Nor dreamy alchemist in days of old. 
E'er sought the prize on which his sou) 

was set. 
With half thine eager heart, oh, brave 

Marquette ! 
'Mid wild Canadian woods and snowy 

wastes, 
He taught him barbarous tongues and 

savage tastes ; 
In lone canoe along these stormy lakes 
He bears the Cross, and their wild echo 

wakes 
With Christian song, which, oft more 

swift than speech. 
Can the rude children of the forest reach. 
His memory greets us wheresoe'er we go, 
'Mid Summer flowers or Winter's frozen 

snow ! 

What recks he of the perils round his 
puth, 

From beast and flood and wood and sav- 
age wrath ? 

What matters that his scanty food alone 

Is oft but moss plucked from the wild- 
wood stone ? 

Jesu is near, the Virgin guards his sleep, 

And sweet his slumbers o'er the billows 
deep ; 

He has his cross, his breviary and beads : 

These be his weapons— he no other needs. 

white-stoled priest ! in all thy wan- 
d'rings lone. 

O'er lake and wild and river, then un- 
known ; 

Thro' all those toilsome days and nights 
of pain 

While thou wert reaping the ripe Gospel 
grain. 

Didst ever dream, or kindly Heaven un- 
fold. 

The wondrous story that has since been 
told 

Of this great land ? how its vast power 
should rise 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



97 



And. woo young Freedom from propi- 
tious skies ; 

How to its outstretched arms and fond 
embrace 

Sliould haste tlie children of each suf- 
f ring race, 

And find by Eastern sea and Western 
streams 

Tlie Eldorado of their wistful dreams, 

Till its free flag should proudly be un- 
furled 

And wake or love or fear o'er all the 
world. 

The birch canoe is gone, which erst 
awoke 

The lonely waters by the wigwam's 
smoke ; 

And in its slead the white sail cleaves the 
tide 

Or plows the steamer thro' the waters 
wide. 

Bearing a world of wealth far o'er the 
deep, 

From Northern blasts to where soft South 
winds sleep, 

Where forests waved, and roamed the 
bounding game, 

And quiver-laden the swart, hunter came. 

The fierce hot breathing of the iron 
horse, 

With fiery nostrils, wakes the echoes 
hoarse. 

Till far and far the frightened deer re- 
bounds 

O'er the long track and through the wild- 
wood grounds. 

The Reel Man's here no more, and by each 
brave 

The blood-stained tomahawk rusts in its 
grave ; 

And where the savage war-dance wildly 
rose. 

And rudely broke lone Nature's sweet 
repose. 

The busy hum of cities wakes the day, 

And festive Pleasure holds higli holiday ; 

And o'er the sward once red with horrid 
sight 

Of human sacrifice and Demon rite, 



The cross of Jesu rises high in air. 
And sobs the soul away in tearful prayer; 
The Christian Sacrifice is here renoweti. 
And pours again the rich red stream from 

Holy Rood. 
Oh, brave young Christian herald ! from 

afar 
Comes thy bright story as a guiding 

star : 
Neglectful centuries could not hide thy 

fame. 
Or dim the luster of thy glorious name- 
That name the Red Man knows, and his 

swart face 
Reveres the angel of his vanished race ; 
Wiiile the lone mariner, o'er waters 

dark, 
When the fierce tempest crowds his 

trembling barque. 
The same invokes as guardian of those 

lakes, 
Nor dreads the danger, that the wild 

wind wakes. 

They dig him a grave in the wild, wet 
sand, 
On the banks of the lonely river, 
And lay him to rest 
With the cross on his breast, 
Far, far away from his own sunny 
land, 
While the night dew falls, and the sad 

winds sigh, 
And none but the angels and two are 
nigh. 

But his faithful braves will not let him 
sleep 
So far from his own loved mission ; 
So in decked canoe. 
When soft winds woo, 
They bear him away, 
'Mid blossoms of May, 
Point St. Ignace, while they pray and 

weep ; 
But though centuries pass, yet the wild 

winds rave 
Round the unlettered stone of Mar- 
quette's grave I 



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THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



REV. THOMAS AMBROSE BUT- 
LER. 

1837 . 

Rev. Thomas Ambrose Butler was born 
in Dublin, Ireland, March 21, 1837. He 
began his classical studies at St. Law- 
rence's Seminary, then presided over by 
the present Catholic bishop of Brisbane, 
Australia, and entered the Catholic Uni- 
versity of Ireland as under-graduate on 
the day of the inauguration of Dr. (now 
Cardinal) Newman. In 1856 went to 
Maynooth College, obtaining first pre- 
mium in belles-lettres in two successive 
years. During eight years of college life 
he frequently contributed to the Nation 
and other Irish journals. He was or- 
dained priest in May, 1864, and was ap- 
pointed curate in County Wicklow. In 
1867, by permission of Cardinal Cullen, 
he went to the Vicariate of Kansas, and 
remained there until the resignation 
of Bishop Meige, in 1875. During his 
residence in Kansas he frequently con- 
tributed to American Catholic journals. 
In 1874, he brought out his book, entitled 
"The Irish on the Prairies, and other 
Poems," also a prose work, "Kansas 
and Irish Immigration." Father Butler's 
poetical contributions appear frequently 
in American journals. He is now pastor 
of St. James' Church, St. Louis, Missouri. 



THE LOST HOME. 

L 

Come, sit, my son, beneath the shade 

where Autumn winds are sighing; 
The shadows, creeping down the woods, 

announce that day is dying; 
And far the murky clouds outspread the 

floating flags of warning — 
Where Alleghauies' giant hills were seen 

at early morning. 

n. 

Behold ! my son, the fertile fields, where 
golden grain is swelling: 

And far away the crested pines thy broth- 
ers' axe is felling; 



And yonder see our cheerful cot beside 

the mountain river — 
Thy fattier knows no master here but 

God, the mighty Giver. 

IIL 
In other days, when life was young, and 

hope was beaming o'er me, 
I lov'd my father's natal cot — I lov'd the 

isle that bore me. 
And love it still — the dear old land — 

though ocean's waves divide us; 
The thoughts of old and fancy's spell 

shall bring its shores beside us. 

IV. 

Oh ! land of sorrows, Innisfail I the sad- 
dest, still the fairest ! 

Though ever-fruitful are thy breasts — 
though green the garb thou wear- 
est, 

In vain thy children seek thy gifts, and 
fondly gather round thee; 

They live as strangers midst thy vales 
since dark oppression bound thee. 



My natal home beside the glen ! how 

could I cease to love thee ? 
The yellow thatch was o'er thy walls,— 

the beeches wav'd above thee; 
Thy skies were like the sea gull's wings— 

of purest snowy brightness; 
They woo'd the Sun, till round thy porch 

he flung his silv'ry brightness. 

VI. 

Methinks I now behold thy smoke ascend 

from yonder thicket — 
Methinks I see my aged sire beside thy 

open wicket. 
And hear my brothers' notes of mirth 

along the valleys ringing. 
Where maidens o'er the milking-pails the 

rural songs are singing. 

VIL 

Around thy hearth, at day's decline, 
arose the voice of gladness — 

The fleeting years, as on they sped, flung 
in no seeds of sadness; 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



99 



And though the swelling tide of care ott ] 

roll'd its waves beside ns, 
We clung in hope around our home — 

no perils could divide us. 

VIII. 
But ah ! on sudden, Famine's breath 

brought direful desolation; 
Whilst tyrants cast their cruel laws 

around the dying nation, 
And spurn'd the wasted, wither'd poor, 

for help, for mercy crying,— 
The Saxons smil'd with joy to hear that 

Celtic sons were dying. 

IX. 

My God, it came ! — the fearful gale — 

against our happy dwelling; 
We stood the fearful shock awhile, 

though waves of care were swelling; 
Whilst, like a monster 'midst the deep, 

which loves the tempest's thunder. 
The lord who own'd our lands desir'd to 

see us sinking under. 



In vain we fed the hopes awhile I in vain 

each dear endeavor ! 
My father's fathers' natal home was lost 

to us forever; 
And cozy roof and porch and walls were 

cast to earth together. 
And we, in woe, were forced to face the 

Winter's direful weather. 

XI. 

Alanna ! 'neath their native soil my 

parents' hearts are sleeping — 
Across their lonely, grassy graves the 

shamrock leaves are creeping ; 
And we are here amidst those wilds, 

where tyrants ne'er can bind us. 
With lands as fertile — not so fair — as 

those we've left behind us. 

XII. 

Yes; true, my son ! thy father dear has 

drunk the bitter potion; 
Yet often 'midst those lonely woods he 

thinks with fond emotion, 



That yonder billows seek our isle — that 

gentle zephyrs fan her: 
Oh ! may her exiles seek her, too, to 

raise her drooping banner ! 

JOHN R. BENSON. 

1837 . 

John R. Benson was born in Manches- 
ter, England, June 5, 1837, and came to 
this country in his infancy. His life has 
been passed mainly in Michigan, and he 
is now a farmer at Mt.Morris in that State. 
He served in the war for three years, with 
great credit. He has wi itten a number of 
poems, which are above the average merit. 



BIRTHDAY LINES. 

How swift has been the flight 

Of these long years, 
Now beautifully bright. 

Now dimmed with tears! 
But ever glowed with hope 

Their horoscope. 

If it be true that we 

Must act the part 
That God decreed should be, 

The feeble heart 
In vain may strive with Fate 

To change its state. 

But on this natal day 

My soul aspires 
To tear the thrall away 

And let the fires 
Of Truth and Virtue rise 

Up to the skies. 

! grant that when again 
A year has fled. 

And 'mid the haunts of men 

My time has sped, 
My retrospective look 

May not rebuke. 

Thus when the days are spent 
To me allowed 

1 may look back content. 
Nor fear the shroud: 

Loved by the good and wise 
The rest despise. 



100 



THE riOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



REV. HENRY A. BRANN, D.D. 

1837 . 

The Rev. Henry A. Brann, D.D., was 
born Au2;ust 16,1837, in Parkstown, Coun- 
ty Meath, Ireland, and emigrated to this 
country in 1849. He studied in St. Mary's 
College, Wilmington, Del., and afterwards 
in St. Francis Xavier's College, New York, 
where he graduated in 1857. His ecclesi- 
astical studies were made in St. Salfice 
Seminary, Paris, wliere he spent three 
years; and in the American College, Rome, 
where he was ordained its first priest and 
its first D.D., in 1862. Dr. Brann was 
vice-president of Seton Hall College, New 
Jersey, from 1862 10 1864. He has been 
pastor of St. Elizabeth's Church, New 
York, for the last ten years. He is the 
author of several well known works. 



THE PROGRESS OF THE FAITH. 

[Tlie following extract is from a poem bear- 
ing this title, written for, and published during 
the Fair in aid of the New York Cathedral. It 
was written as an illustration of the growth of 
the Church in New York City.] 

Historic Muse ! my joyous voice inspire. 
To sing Faith's wonders, with celestial 

fire, 
Tiiat in one age by valiant sous were 

wrought 
Of Christian sires who first Manhattan 

sought. 
Too oft thy record is of deeds of blood. 
Of war and rapine, not of truth and good; 
Then, to a tale in which both virtues 

strong 
And burning zeal and piety belong. 
Propitious lend thy aid, and briefly rest 
Thy ceaseless pinions on this temple's 

crest ! 
The Muse invoked, behold ! now quick 

appears 
From out the gloom that hides a hundred 

years; 
On outward wall of temple takes her 

stand. 
Evoking facts with memory's magic wand, 
And thus the crowds in trumpet tones 

addressed, 



Their bowed heads list'ned and the truth 

confessed : 
"From distant East your faithful fathers 

came. 
At first but few, some not unknown to 

fame; 
From vine-clad France, by revolution 

driven. 
Some sought in western lands a friendlier 

haven, 
A few from Spain, and from Italia's 

shores, 
Impelled by faith, which unknown seas 

explores; 
Of Teuton race, that erst so tierce and 

bold 
Withstood Rome's legions in the forests 

cold. 
Full thousands came, now docile to her 

laws. 
As leal to Christ as once to Hermann's 

cause.* 
But from lone Erin came the larger flock 
To plant the faith that rests on Peter's 

rock. 
I see them now as from that isle they 

sailed 
The church to spread that never yet has 

failed, 
By hate expelled and Albion's cruel laws 
From native land and for religion's 

cause. 
These and their deeds of faith thy worthy 

theme 
Of praise immortal should this city deem. 
How oft, the scene recalled, with anguish 

cleaves 
The mind that thinks on what the exile 

leaves ! 
Mark how he wanders down the winding 

lane. 
Each step a sting and ev'ry look a pain; 
The cloistering elms that saw bis young- 
est years. 
His father's cot which 'mid their shade 

appears. 
The old churchyard where his ancestors 

lie, 

*The savage warrior known to the Romaus at 
Armiuiua. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



101 



The church, the priest, all bid a sad good- 
bye ! 
His youthful wife hangs weeping on his 

arm, 
The cowering child looks on in strange 

alarm. 
Perched on the cart where their scant 

stores are spread 
Now cries, now laughs, now hides his 

coyish head; 
Unconscious yet of all his parents' woes, 
Half pleased he looks, and chirrups as he 

goes. 
The patient beast that all this burden 

bears. 
The common sorrow by demeanor shares; 
His steps are slow, his eye betrays his fear 
To part; and shows his sorrow in his 

pendant ear. 
The bay at length attained, where stately 

towers 
The lordly ship that dares old Neptune's 

powers, 
The peasants' mount, a sorrow-stricken 

train. 
The keel that bears them o'er the Western 

main, 
A home of freedom and of faith to find, 
To weakness gentle and to exiles kind. 
Lies like a lake begirt with verdant 

ground. 
With houses glistening on tlie islands 

round ; 
Or silver punch-bowl for the banquet set. 
Wreathed round the rim with floral coro- 
net. 
With wondering eyes the exiles fondly 

gazed 
Till lovely landscapes their dim visions 

dazed. 
At islets floating in the water clear, 
At haughty masts in dock, and steeples 

near. 
The great metropolis before them lay. 
Queen of our Commerce, empress of the 

Bay. 
Not Naples, gorgeous under southern sun, 
Nor English Channel, where fierce billows 

run. 



Nor Bantry, famed for clifE and sounding 

shore. 
Nor all the harbors named in ancient 

lore— 
Not e'en the charms of Erin's fairest Cork 
Can equal thee, thou Bay of great New 

York! 
The pilgrims land and, reverent, kiss the 

sod, 
Impelled by faith and gratitude to God, 
With joyous mien they bless the grateful 

shore, 
Discourse of future plans, since perils 

past are o'er." 



THE STOLEN FLOWER POTS. 

A culprit fay, in haste one day, 

Took all a peri's flowers: 
Nor recked she then her prayers to say, 

Nor sought devotion's bowers. 

The peri grieved, her heart bereaved 
Of all her fragrant treasures; 

And sought the King, who she believed 
Would take the proper measures. 

The satyrs brave, of each the slave, 
Took up the fairies' wrangle; 

In blood they swore their swords they'd 
lave. 
And each the other mangle. 

The King, in pain, that thus his reign 
Should be by fairies troubled; 

Commanded peace unto the twain 
Whose breasts with battle bubbled. 

" Good herald, run ! "—a truce is won, 
Appeased the adverse forces; 

The flowers go back before the sun 
Has run his autumn courses. 

And now do all, both great and small, 

In freshness greater never; 
The blossoms bloom in peri's hall, 

In beauty growing ever. 

For fairy smiles and peri tears 

The faded rose will nourish; 
And serve in lieu of liglit and dew 

To make the dry buds flourish. 



102 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



WILLIAM LOUIS KELLY. 

1837 . 

William Louis Kelly, a son of Col. 
Charles C. Kelly, was born in Springfield^ 
Ky., August 27, 1837. In 1855 Mr. Kelly 
was made assistant postmaster at Louis- 
ville. He read law at niglif, and gradu- 
ated at the University of Louisvil'e in 
1860. In 1864 he left Louisville for the 
army as a special agent of the Post-ofBce 
Department. He continued in the postal 
service until 1867, when he went to Min- 
nesota. He was at one time editor of the 
Northwestern Chronicle, and is now prac- 
ticing law in St. Paul, 



ASH WEDNESDAY. 

[In the marble flo ^r of an old Italian church, 
beneath which many dead have been buried, 
there is one slab bearing this simple inscrip- 
tion : " Palvis — Cinis — Nihil " — Dust, ashes, 
nothing.] 

Only this and nothing more. 

Graven on the marble floor. 

Where the sunlight, soft, subdued, 

Breaks upon the solitude 

Of that vast church, through windows 

high 
Stained in Christian imagery; — 
Lighting up with glory quaint 
As halo, head of sculptured saint, 
Or Holy Mother to men given. 
Peerless of all blest of Heaven: 
Besting on the Altar grand 
When rested priest uplifts the hand, 
And incense lingers on the air, 
A seeming of the Christian's prayer: 
But altar, lamp and sunlight smiles 
Through all those dim cathedral aisles 
Reveal to every passer-by 
Saint and sinner — low or high — 
These three words— these, no more, 
Graven on the marble floor: 
PuVois— Cinis— Nihil. 

Who rests beneath ? No man knows, 
Nor Summer's suns, nor Winter's snows, 
As on the changing seasons go, 
Will tell the tale, all we know 



Stands here revealed. Nor name, nor 

age- 
Maid or matron, poet, sage. 
Warrior mailed, whose flaming sword 
Flashed brightest, lor the living word 
O'er Infidel, when blood as wine 
Stained the sands of Palestine; 
Or holy hermit, bishop, priest, 
Or Dives at his royal feast. 
Or th' beggar at the gate, who calls 
For crumb that from that table falls: 
This we know, that 'neath that stone 
For ages slept some one, unknown. 

Still as man's restless pulse shall beat 
Through coming years, and thousand 

feet 
Shall tread these aisles, as they have trod. 
Where rests tK unknown to all save God ; 
Nor time, nor travel shall efface 
The lessons which these three words 

trace 
On every heart— this, nothing more, 
Graven on the marble floor, 
Pulvls— Cinis— Nihil. 

MICHAEL O'CONNOR. 

1837— 1862. 
Michael O'Connor was born in Orange 
County, New York, in 1837. At the usual 
age he began to learn a trade, at which 
he worked in various places until he en- 
listed in the national service in the Sum- 
mer of 1862. He was then in Rochester, 
N. Y., and became a sergeant in Company 
K. of the liOth Regiment. He died of 
typhoid fever, in an army hospital at 
Potomac Station, Virginia, after having 
been only three months in the field. 



REVEILLE. 
The morning is cheery, my boys, arouse ! 
The dew shines bright on the chestnut 

boughs, 
And the sleepy mist on the river lies, 
Though the east is flushing with crimson 
dyes. 
Awake ! awake ! awake ! 
O'er field and wood and brake, 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



103 



With glories newly born. 
Comes on tlie blushing morn. 
Awake! awake 1 

You have dreamed of your homes and 

friends all night ; 
You have basked in your sweetheart's 

smiles so bright ; 
Come, part with them all for a while 

again,— 
Be lovers in dreams ; when awake, be 
men. 
Turn out ! turn out ! turn out ! 

You have dream'd full long, I know, 
Turn out ! turn out ! turn out I 
The east is all aglow. 
Turn out ! turn out ! 

From every valley and hill there come 
The clamoring voices of fife and drum : 
And out in the fresh, cool morning air 
The soldiers are swarming every- where. 
Fall in I fall in I fall in ! 

Every man in his place. 
Fall in ! fall in ! fall in ! 
Each with a cheerful face. 
Fall in I fall in ! 



THE BEAUTY. 

Be it my most pleasing duty 

To describe a little beauty ; 

Though I never saw her face 

But within a picture case, 

'Tvvould look better in a bonnet. 

With a wreath of flowers upon it. 

And a living smile to sun it. 

But even round that picture cover 

Love and Memory ever hover, 

Like the bees round tops of clover. 

It is the daguerreotype 

Of all that's rich and rare and ripe I 

Let me count the rosary 

Of her charms, and bend the knee 

Of unpretending poesy 

Before the leather- covered shrine 

Of this patron saint of thine. 

Who, combining every grace. 

Reigns a female Bonny-face : 



Hair in deep, dark currents flowing. 
Whose smooth waves with light are glow- 
ing. 
As in countless drifts and whorls 
It breaks upon her neck in curls. 
Flashing eyes, with azure tinged, 
Jetty, arched and silken fringed ; 
Blest he'll be whom their warm glances 
Coax along to love's advances ; 
Happy he who shall behold 
Love's first buds in them unfold. 
Her dainty nose I'll not define 
As either Greek or aquiliiie, 
Nor it with ostentation call 
"The noblest Roman of them all" — 
But all their beauties blent in one^ 
Could only match this paragon ; 
For in it mingle all the graces 
Seen in those of classic faces. 
Cheeks on which, though peace reposes, 
War again the jealous roses. 
A dainty mouth enwreathed with smiles 
But free from all coquettish wiles, 
Whose curved lips, vermilion hued. 
Are love's own sweet similitude ; 
While through them oft are seen beneath 
Flashing pearl-enameled teeth. 
Throat that like a marble column, 
Curtained by her tresses' volume, 
Stands revealed as in a niche. 
Splendidly adorned and rich. 
Moulded to artistic lines, 
And polished till it fairly shines. 
There you see, all rare and bright, 
A face of which I dream at night. 
If her charms I've rightly told, 
'Tis an angel you behold. 

Who will win and wear the beauty ? 
Some old fellow, grim and sooty. 
You smile, and doubtless think it funny ; 
Let me add, he'll have the money— 
A sour and mouldy hard old crust, 
Round whom Dame Fortune drifts her 

dust — 
Some brute, who may abuse and thump 

her, 
Or some sleek young counter-jumper — 
A shrewd, adulterating grocer— 
Methinks I hear you mutter "No, sir ! " 



104 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



Ah ! my boy, you slionld Iniow better ; 
One of tlieni is sure to t^et her. 
Depend upon it, she'll be won 
By Jones, or Brown or Robinson. 
If she fishes for a mate 
Willi youth and beauty as her bait, 
The chances are she'll catch a Tartar, 
And die a matrimonial martyr ; 
Or, after years of angling, marry 
Tom— ay, even Dick or Harry ! 
If her heart is not as true 
As her features fair to view, 
For you to strive to rival Mammon 
Is worse, my friend, far worse than gam- 
mon. 
Most beauties are, you should consider. 
Knocked down to the highest bidder. 

Every one has some sweet face 
Prisoned in a picture case. 
Or by memory's magic art 
Photographed upon the heart ; 
And we all. In gloomy days. 
Steal apart and on them gaze. 
Some bring thoughts of hope and glad- 
ness ; 
Some of by-gone days and sadness ; 
As old eyes, by longing kindled. 

Fondly to past pleasures travel. 
And weird fingers, lean and dwindled. 

All their web of life unravel. 
For the threads of golden slieen 
That far apart are dimly seen. 



ARTHUR J. STAGE. 

1838 . 

Arthur J. Stace was born in Berwick, 
England, January 28, 1«38. His family 
came to Canada in 1852, and Mr. Stace 
went to Marshall, Mich., where he taught 
a Catholic school for some time, after 
which he entered the University of Notre 
Dame as a student. He graduated in 
1864, and was engaged as a professor, 
continuing in that position for some 
years. He has a keen sense of the humor- 
ous, and a graceful faculty of expres- 
sion. 



THE STRAWBERRY FESTIVAL. 

[Tliis is La Fete anx Fraise.i. of the Abb^ 
Tin'houchon. Its peculiar cliarm lies In the 
faet that It not only rtescrihos the functions of 
alimentation with a charming simplicity, but it 
serves also as a warning to the superfluously 
enthusiastic student not to display his newly 
acquired erudition at an unseasonable time. 
Observe that the paronomasia in the seventh 
stanza is one of those rare examples of this 
kind of wit which happen to be translatable.l 

I. 

A physiological student one day 

Of strawberries went to jiartake. 
And finding himself in a company gay, 
He took the occasion a little display 
Of his favorite science to make. 

n. 

"How few do we find," he began, "that 
will pause, 
When luxuries luscious surround. 
To reflect on the great alimentative laws. 
Which determine the course of what 
passes the jaws; 
But let ws, at least, be profound ! 

III. 

" These berries, conveyed to the mouth, 
are designed 
By the teeth triturated to be. 
And then they will pass, with saliva com- 
bined. 
Through the pharynx and down the 
oesophagus, mind ! 
To the stomach, as all will agree. 

IV. 

"Now, let us examine what passes below, 

Wlien the juices called gastric secreted 

Therein"— (Here the ladies all got up to 

go; 
But he didn't observe it, because he was 
so 
Absorbed, till his task was completed). 

V. 

"These juices convert it to chyme, and it 

goes 
Through an aperture called the pylorus, 
Excepting the peptone, which soaks out 

and flows 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



105 



Right into the veins, we are led to sup- 
pose, 
For the walls ol the vessels are porous. 

VI. 

"Now, the chyme passing through the 
pylorus, to wind 
Through the long duodenum begins. 
Where the bile and the juice pancreatic 

we find. 
Make chyle of the chyme to their work- 
ings consigned. 
And this chyle through the lacteals 
spins. 

VII. 
"Though a pun is offensive in many re- 
spects — 
An offense at which no one should 
smile — 
Yet we scarcely can censure a mind that 

reflects 
That a change in the liquids is that wliich 
effects 
The conversion of chywe into chyle." 

VIII. 

But here, looking up for the laugh with 

surprise 
He found himself left quite alone, 
And he sighed as he added : "Alas! how 

unwise 
Are the multitude ! Gossip, and fashions, 

and lies 
Tliey relish; but if to instruct them one 

tries. 
He might as well talk to a stone," 

JOHN F. SCANLAN. 

,839 . 

John F. Scanlan was born in Castlema- 
hon. County Limerick, Ireland, December 
29, lSo9. He emigrated to the United 
States in 1849, lived in Boston, Mass., un- 
til 1851, and moved to Chicago, III., in 
that year, where he has since made his 
home. He took an active part in the Fe- 
nian Rising in 1865-6, and has ever 
worked zealously in every movement for 
the advancement of liis fellow country- 



men. He has been e'ected to several 
positions of trust in Chicago. Mr. Scan- 
lan is the author of several books, and a 
contributor to various magazines. All 
his literary productions show much abil- 
ity. 



THE ANGELS IN GRAY. 

L 

Jim, you've asked me, "why I doff my 

hat 

To that ere wf man dressed in gray." 

Woman ! Heaven's best gift on earth, 

But she's an Angel in robes of clay; 

I'll tell you why I doff my hat 

To that garb that moves in its Heavenly 
way 

When the Spirit of Charity smiled on our 
strife: 

The handmaid of love was the Angel in 
Gray. 

IL 

'Tis now seven years gone and past 

Since the word was whispered around; 

The eve of the struggle was near at last 

When the camp would be the battle- 
ground. 

In silence we watched the red setting 
sun 

And thought of the morrow, with its ter- 
rible fray, 

OF our boyhood's dream and manhood's 
gleams, 

To many 'twas the eve of eternal day. 

IIL 

In the dark hour of night, just before 

day, 
In the rear of the camp, 'twas marcliins 

my beat. 
When a gentle voice murmured, "Forgive 

them, I pray. 
For this, my Lord ! I bow at thy feet." 
To the tent of the penitent I moved on 

tiptoe, 
I thought some mortal was stricken with 

grief. 
'Tvvas a Slstef of Charity, face all aglow, 
Fraying for us and our country's relief. 



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IV. 

With a fervent Amen, I dropped on my 
knee; 

For the first in years I uttered a prayer. 

My soul back to chikihood flew happy 
and free, 

I knelt to my mother by her old arm- 
chair, 

My head, as of old, on lier bosom 1 
pressed, 

Her silver wliite hair I fondled, as often 
I'd done, 

'Twas only a dream in youthful dress, 

For the long roll was sounding— the bat- 
tle begun. 



The battle, it lasted from morning till 

eve. 
And, Jim— you know it was a terrible 

day, 
In the dawn of success I got this empty 

sleeve, 
And learned to bless the Angel in Gray. 
1 bless them, for in battle field or fever 

tent. 
When mothers and sisters were far away, 
They gave life to the living and light to 

the dying, 
That glorious band— the Angels in Gray. 

VI. 

I've tested my friends the world round, 
In fever-wards, in camp, and battle fray. 
No mother could, no human would 
Face death for man like Angels in Gray. 
I love that garb, Jim, with a holy love. 
And salute it, as all soldiers should do. 
Who were blest by the care of the Angels 

in Gray 
When fighting for freedom 'neath red, 

white and blue. 

REV. ABRAM J. RYAN. 

1840 . 

Rev. Abram J. Ryan was born in Vir- 
ginia, in 1840. He was educated at St. 
Vhicent's College, Cape Girardeau, Mo. 
He was located for some years in Knox- 



ville, Tenn. Durmg the Spring of 1868 
he undertook the editorial management 
of a Democratic paper in Augusta, Ga., 
called the Banner of tTie South. Father 
Ryan is now pastor of St. Mary's Church, 
in Mobile, Ala. His poems are all on 
the same key — fiery and devout. His 
"Conquered Banner" is the best "Con- 
federate" poem written during the late 
war. 



THE CONQUERED BANNER. 

Furl that banner, for 'tis weary. 
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary, 

Furl it, fold it, it is best; 
For there's not a man to wave it. 
And there's not one left to lave it 
In the blood which heroes gave it; 
And its foes now scorn and brave it^ 

Furl it, hide it, let it rest. 

Take that banner down; 'tis tattered ! 
Broken is its staff and shattered, 
And the valiant hosts are scattered. 

Over whom it floated high. 
Oh ! 'tis hard for us to fold it- 
Hard to think there's none to hold it — 
Hard that those who once unrolled it 

Now must furl it with a sigh. 

Furl that banner, furl it sadly, 
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly. 
And ten thousands, wildly, madly, 

Swore it should forever wave: 
Swore that foeman's sword should never 
Hearts like tlieirs entwined dissever. 
Till that flag should float forever 

O'er their freedom, o'er their grave. 

Furl it ! For the hands that grasped it, 
And the hearts that fondly clasped it. 

Cold and dead are lying low; 
And that banner, it is trailing. 
While around it sounds the wailing 

Of its people in their woe. 
For, though conquered, tliey adore it, 
Love the cold dead hands that bore it. 
Weep for those who fell before it, 
Pardon those who trailed and tore it; 
But oh ! wildly they deplore it 

Now, who furl and fold it so I 



r 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



107 



Furl that banner— true, 'tis pory, ' 

Yet, 'tis wreathed around with glory, 
And 'twill live in aong and story. 

Though its folds are in the dust; 
For its fame on brightest pages, 
Penned by poets and by sages, 
Shall go sounding tlirough the ages, 

Furl its folds though now we must. 

Furl that banner, softly, slowly, 
Treat it gently, it is holy— 

For it droops above the dead; 
Touch it not, unfold it never. 
Let it droop there, furled for ever, 

For its people's hopes are dead. 



THE ROSARY OF MY YEARS. 

Some reckon their age by years. 
Some measure their life by art— 

But some tell their days by the flow of 
their tears. 

And their life by the moans of their lieart. 

The dials of earth may shovr 

The length, not the depth, of years. 

Few or many they come- few or many 
they go— 

But our time is best measured by tears. 

Ah ! not by the silver gray 

That creeps through the sunny hair, 

And not by the scenes that we pass on 
our way— 

And not by the furrows the finger of care. 

On forehead and face have made; 

Not so do we count our years; 
Not by the sun of the earth — but the 

shade 
Of our souls— and the fall of our tears. 

For the young are ofttimes old, 
Though their brow be bright and fair; 
While their blooJ beats warm, their heart 

lies cold— 
O'er them the Spring-time — but Winter 
is there. 

And the old are ofttimes young. 
When the hair is thin and white; 



And they sing in age as in youth they 

sung, 
And they laugh, for their cross was light. 

But bead by bead I tell 

The rosary of my years; 
From a cross to a cross they lead — 'tis 

well! 
And they're blest with a blessing of tears. 

Better a day of strife 

Than a century of sleep; 
Give me instead of a long stream of life. 
The tempest and tears of the deep. 

A thousand joys may foam 
On the billows of all the years; 
But never the foam brings the brave bark 

home- 
It reaches the haven through tears. 



THE SONG OF THE MYSTIC. 

I walk down the Valley of Silence, 
Down the dim, voiceless valley alone. 

And I hear not the sound of a footstep 
Around me, but God's and my own; 

And the hush of my heart as holy 
As hovers where angels have flown. 

Long ago was I weary of voices 
Whose music my soul could not win. 

Long ago was I weary of noises 
That fretted my soul with their din. 

Long ago was I weary of places 
Where I met but the human and sin. 

I walked in the world with the worldly. 
Yet I craved what the world never gave; 

And I said, in the world each ideal 
That shines like a star on life's wave 

Is toned on the shores of the real 
And sleeps like a dream in the grave. 

And still did I pine for the perfect, 
And still I found the false with the true: 

I sought 'mid the Human of Heaven, 
And caught a mere glimpse of its blue; 

And I sighed when the clouds of the 
Mortal 
Veiled even that glimpse from my view 



108 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



And I toiled on, heart- tired of the Human, 
And groaned 'mid tlie masses of men, 

Till I knelt long ago at an altar, 
And heard a voice call me. Since then 

I walk down the Valley of Silence 
That lies far beyond human ken. 

Do you ask what I found in the Valley? 

Tis my trysting-place with the Divine, 
And I fell at the feet of the Holy 

And around nie a voice said: "Be mine!" 
And then rose from the depths of my 
soul 

An echo, "My heart shall be thine." 

Do j'ou ask how I live in the Valley? 

I weep and 1 dream and I jiray. 
But ray tears are as sweet as the dew- 
drops 
That fall on the roses in May; 
And my prayer, like a perfume from cen- 
sor, 
Ascendeth to God, night and day. 

In tlie hush of the Valley of Silence 
I hear all the songs that I sing; 

And the music floats down the dim Val- 
ley 
Till each finds a word for a whig; 

Tliat to men, like the doves of the deluge, 
The message of peace they may bring. 

But far on the deep there are billows 
That never shall break on the beach, 

And I have heard songs in the silence 
That never shall float into speech. 

And I have had dreams in the Valley 
Too lofty for language to reach. 

And I have seen thoughts in the Valley, 
Ah, me ! How my spirit was stirred ! 

Tliey wear holy veils on their faces; 
Their footsteps can scarcely be heard; 

They pass down the Valley like virgins. 
Too pure for the touch of a word. 

Do you ask me the place of this Valley, 
To hearts that are harrowed by care? 

It lieth afar between mountains, 
And God and his angels are there: 

And one is the dark mount of sorrow, 
Auil ..ne the brigiit mountain of prayer. 



REV. JAMES KENT STONE. 

1840 . 

Father Stone, best known as a zealous 
priest under the name of Father Fidehs, 
was born in Boston in 1840. He gradu- 
ated at Harvard, and, in course of time, 
became president of Kenyon College, 
Ohio, an Episcopal institution. Upon 
reading the invitation of Plus IX. ad- 
dressed to all non-Catholics, he iccepted 
the faith. Some years later he joined 
the Congregation of St. Paul, but after- 
wards entered the order of ihe P-Assion- 
ists. He has written but few poems, yet 
these few show poetic talent of a 'ligh 
order. He is now a missionary in South 
America. 



ITA TENEBR^ SICUT LUX. 

[This poem, beautiful and simple as one ot 
Ihe old breviary hymns, was written in Latin, In 
a student's album at Kenyon College. The 
author was then president of that institution, 
and of course not yet a Catholic. The following 
translation, from the original Latin, appeared 
some years ago in the Ave Maria, published at 
Notre Dame, Indiana.] 

Eve is now her shades extending, 
Night, obscure and dread, descending, 

Darkness shrouds the earth and skies; 
Glorious from Thy bright dominions. 
Bearing health upon Thy pinions, 

Rise, O Sun of Justice, rise ! 

Care and grief have long oppressed me. 
Sin made weary and distressed me, 

Wliile sweet hope dwells far apart; 
Come, and shed on me Thy gladness. 
Lift, dear Lord, this cloud of sadness, 

Thou who God and goodness art ! 

Wings, O ! quickly might I borrow. 
Rising, dove-like, care and sorrow. 

Fault, affliction leaving far, 
Swift to Thee my fliglit were given; 
Safe at length in that dear haven. 

Peace in full my soul should share. 

Thou who rulest high in glory. 
Turning yet to our poor story, 
With a Father's tenderness. 
Help Tiiy child, so spent, so needy, 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



109 



And his thirsting heart witli speecl^' 
Bounteous peace, Father, bless ! 

Thou each hidden pathway kiiowest; 
And the guardian care Thou showest 

Day and night wiiii us remains: 
Prove me, search my inmost spirit; 
Aided by Tliy supreme merit, 

"Who sliail rashly cause me pains ! 

Wiien mine eyes have l^nown tiie vision 
Of Tiiy strength, those choirs Elysian 

Hovering near shall safety bring; 
Nought in night shall more be fearful, 
Resting in Thy light all cheerful. 

Savior, Lord, and Heavenly King ! 

REV. MICHAEL B. BROWN. 

1S40 . 

Rrv. Father Brown was born near 
Plattsburg, Neb., September 20, 1840. He 
was ordained priest in 1867, and is now 
stationed at Youngstown, Ohio. He was 
for some years a valued professor of phil- 
osophy at the University of Notre Dame, 
and has been a popular and prolific writer. 



THE HARP. 

When the soft breath of evening, with 
loving caresses, 
Rejoices the sweet sunny vale of the 
West; 
When the day-star retiring, imprints 
golden kis«es 
On rosy-cheeked Nature, 'ere sinking to 
rest; 
Come then, sister, and sit on the knoll by 
the willow. 
And join thy sweet voice to the harp's 
trembling chord; 
Let the rich notes of music, on wings of 
the zephyr. 
Bear joy to a heart witli tliin« own in 
accord. 

When the cricket peeps out from his 
secret day-chamber, 
To welcome the mild silvery light of the 
moon; 



When the stars from behind the blue cur- 
tains of heaven 
Lean breathlessly forward, entranced 
by thy tune; 
(), then, let thy magical fingers glide 
liglilly. 
The slumbering strings rouse to melody 
true. 
And thy own gentle voice chime with 
every vibration. 
As on fragrant flow'rs falls the soft, 
soothing dew. 

When the gay world is breathless with 
sport and excitement. 
And nectarine goblets the epicure sips: 
When silence reigns over the meadows 
and woodlands, 
0, then, let sweet melody flow from thy 
lips. 
Touch, tlien, lightly the chords of thy 
hnrp, sister dearest, 
For music is charming wherever 'tis 
found, 
But flowing all pure from the chaste 
touch of beauty, 
A new charm is added to harmony's 
sound. 



ANNIE A. FITZGERALD. 

1842 . 

Miss Fitzgerald was born in Canada, 
October 23, 1842. She is a sister of Mar- 
cella A. Fitzgerald, and in 1865 entered 
the order of the Sisters of Notre Dame, 
in San Jose, Cal., taking the name of Sis- 
ter Anna Raphael. She is a valued con- 
tributor to various publications. 



SANTA CRUZ IN OCTOBER. 

What beautiful pictures have gladdened 

my vision ! 
Whac garners of thought I have gathered 

to-day ! 
What records for memory with faithful 

incision, 
To carve on iniperishing tablets for ;'.ye ! 



no 



THE HOUSEPIOLD LIBRARY 



What landscapes embalmed in such mild- 
ness and brightness, 

As only our golden October can bring ! 

What wind clouds that fleck with their 
tresses' soft whiteness, 

The clear, azure dyes of the Heaven's 
dewy wing! 

What redwood crowned heights, with 

their serrate peaks cleaving 
The rain baptized ether of North and of 

East! 
What garden-girt homes, sober hill-sides 

relieving ! 
What city crowned slopes, a perpetual 

feast 

Of light and of color, where pleased eyes 

may linger 
And, wandering from hill-top to hill-top 

may find 
New traces each moment of God's glorious 

finger, 
New gladness and food for the heart and 

themindl 
What blending of maple and locust and 

laurel. 
What grand eucalypti, pine, cypress, and 

lo! 
What poplars majestic that "pointing a 

moral," 
Fire all the calm air with their rich torch- 
light glow! 

What home-Altars tended with loving 

emotion! 
What fanes reared to Justice and Beauty 

and Use! 
What temples to Charity, Learning, Devo- 
tion- 
Bright pledge of thy future, fair Santa 
Cruz ! 

Wliat gleams thro' its stretches of shad- 
owy willows 

Of the clear San Lorenzo! but what shall 
I say 

Of their beauty majestic, the organ voiced 
billows. 

And the glitter and glisten of iris hued 
spray? 



Of the leagues upon leagues of the far 
stretching ocean. 

With its six score and six million miles, 
craving more. 

With its merciless phalanxes ever in mo- 
tion, 

And steadily gaining on eartli's crumb- 
ling shore? 

Oh ! the marvelous swell cf its foam- 
crested ridges! 

Oh ! the wealth of its plant-world's red, 
olive and green! 

Oh! the wonderful arch of its wave-sculp- 
tured bridges 

And the rock-haunting sea-birds enliven- 
ing the scene. 

Rude cliffs where the hoar eriogonum 

lingers, 
And the wild rose braids wreaths for their 

weather-stained brow, 
Where the mesembryanthemum's stiff, 

fleshy fingers 
Trail massive festoons; I can see it all 

now. 

Not in fragments, or gleams, but beyond 
overpraising, 

A picture unpeered, as when first to my 
eyes 

Revealed, from the tower of the light- 
house out-gazing. 

From the foam-furrowed sea to the cloud- 
crested skies, 

"Deep answering to deep," blue to azure 
replying, 

A kinship of pearliness, cirri and spray. 

And a soft, fleecy haze. Autumn's bride- 
veil o'erlying 

The brow of the mountain, the breast of 
the bay. 

Monterey and Salinas and Watsonvilie 

hiding 
In mists from our vision, and faint thro' 

the haze 
To the south lovely .ipios, in calm peace 

abiding 
And Soquel's jutting headland outgleam 

as we gaze, 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



Ill 



While eastward proud Lonia Prieta looms 

graudly, 
His darlf forest mantle wrapped close 

round his breast, 
Yet with reverent brow bared, as the 

noon airs woo blandly 
Tlie glance of our monarcli of mountains 

to rest 

On the realms at his feet, like submissive 
serfs lying. 

On the home-dotted plateaus and pictur- 
esque sight 

Of the city liill throned, and with eartli's 
fairest vying, 

Now bathed in the splendors of raid-day's 
warm light. 

Santa Cruz ! Santa Cruz ! Blest Ely- 
doric ! 

In clear, mellow colors, how oft to my 
view, 

With tintings warm, genial, grand, gen- 
tle, historic, 

Will memory, the artist, still limn thee 
anew ! 

Willi thy hills, homes and hearts that with 

grateful emotion 
Will thrill me, and fill me, till life's latest 

hours, 
With thy grand, glorious anthems of 

mountain and ocean, 
And the sweet minstrel strains of thy 

shells and thy flowers. 

Like the countless doves haunting the 
the hallowed and hoary 

Old Mission where Christian laith first 
gave thee name, 

What thoughts cluster round thee of song 
and of story. 

What joy-pinioned thanks for thy health- 
giving fame. 

And yet there are thoughts that no lan- 
guage discloses 

When reverence and woisliip, in rapt 
silence lie. 



And speech, like the broken bell* under 

the roses, 
To the hand of the ringer can yield no 

reply. 

Farewell ! lovely scene, but no space can 

dissever 
The bonds of remembrance that never 

can cease; 
God grant that thy name be thy Labarum 

forever 
Queen of the hills by the ocean of Peace ! 



JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 

1844 . 

John Boyle O'Reilly was born at Dowth 
Castle, County Meath, Ireland, June 28, 
1844. He received a thorough pri.ctical 
education, and learned the printer's trade 
ill the office of the Droglieda Argus. For 
political reasons he was exiled to Austra- 
lia in 1866, but remained in England some 
time afterward, and it was not until Jan- 
uary, 1868, that he reached Australia. He 
was so fortunate as to escape February 
18, 1869, and make his way to Boston, 
where he has since been connected with 
The Pilot, a Citholic journal of which he 
is now the principal owner. He is a grace- 
ful and forcible poet, an accomplished 
scholar and a true gentleman and friend. 
Mr. O'Reilly received the degree of LL.D. 
"from the University of Notre Dame, at the 
annual commencement in 18S1, 



WESTERN AUSTRALIA. 

O beauteous Southland I land of yellow 
air, 
That hangeth o'er the slumbering, and 
doth hold 
The moveless foliage of the valleys fair 
And wooded hills, like aureole of gold. 

*An allusion to one of the choir of nine old 
mission bells, which now lies broken and silent 
under the Castiliau roses in the ancient garden, 
an object of interest to the tourist and antiqua- 
rian. 



112 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



thou, discovered ere the fitting time. 
Ere Nature, iu completion, turned thee 
forth ! 
Ere aught was finished but thy peerless 
clinie. 
Thy virgin breath allured the amorous 
North. 

land ! God made thee wond'rous to the 
eye. 
But His sweet singers thou hast never 
heard : 
He left thee, meaning to come by and by, 
And give rich voice to every bright- 
winged bird. 

He painted with fresh hues thy myriad 
flowers, 
But left them scentless ; ah, their woe- 
ful dole. 
Like sad reproach of their Creator's pow- 
ers, 
To make so sweet fair bodies, void of 
soul. 

He gave thee trees of odorous, precious 
wood ; 
But, midst them all, bloomed not one 
tree of fruit. 
He looked, but said not that his work was 
good, 
Wlien leaving thee all perfumeless and 
mute. 

He blessed thy flowers with honey— everj 
bell 
Looks earthward, suuward, with a win- 
ning wist ; 
But no bee lover ever notes the swell 
Of hearts, like lips, a-hungering to be 
kissed. 

strange land ! thou art virgin ; thou art 
more 
Than fig-tree barren. Would that I 
could paint, 
For others' eyes, the glory of the shore 
Where last I saw thee ! but the senses 
faint 

In soft, delicious dreaming when they 
drain 
Thy wine of color. Virgin fair thou art. 



All sweetly fruitful, waiting vvitli soft 
pain 
The spouse who comes to wake thy 
sleeping heart. 



GOLU. 
Once I had a little sweetheart 

In the land of the Malay, — 
Such a little yellow sweetheart ! 

Warm and peerless as the day 
Of her own dear sunny island, 

Keiinah, in the far, far East, 
Where the mango and banana 

Made us many a merry feast. 

Such a little copper sweetheart 

Was my Golu, plump and round. 
With her liair, all blue- black, stream! n;. 

O'er her to the very ground ; 
Soft and clear as dewdrop clinging 

To a grass- blade was her eye. 
Fur the heart below was purer 

Than the hill stream whispering by. 

Costly robes were not for Golu ; 

No more raiment did she need 
Than the milky budding breadfruit, 

Or the lily of the mead ; 
And she was my little sweetheart 

Many a sunny Summer day 
When we ate the fragrant guavas, 

In the land of the Malay, 

Life was laughing then. Ah ! Golu, 

Do you think of that <jld time. 
And of all the tales I told you 

Of my colder Western clime ? 
Do you think how happy were we 

When we sailed to strip the palm, 
And we made a latteen arbor 

Of the boat sail in the calm ? 

They may call you semi-savage, 

Golu ! I can not forget 
How I poised my little sweetheart 

Like a copper statuette. 
Now my path lies through the ci'.ies ; 

But they can not drive away 
My sweet dreams of little Golu 

And the laud of the Malay. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



113 



AT BEST. 
The faithful helm commands the keel, 

From port to port fair breezes blow ; 
But the ship must sail the convex sea, 

Nor may she straighter go. 

So man to man : in fair accord, 
Ou thought and will, the winds may 
wait ; 

But the world will bend the passing word, 
Though its shortest course be straight. 

From soul to soul the shortest line 

At best will bended be ; 
The ship that holds the straightest course 

Still sails the convex sea. 



FOREVER. 
Those we love truly never die. 
Though year by year the sad memorial 

wreath, 
A ring and flowers, types of life and 

death, 
Are laid upon their graves. 

For death the pure life saves. 

And life all pure is love; and love can 

reach 
From heaven to earth and nobler lessons 

teach 
Than those by mortals read. 

Well blest is he who has a dear one 

dead; 
A friend he has whose face will never 

change, 
A dear communion that will not grow 

strange; 
The anchor of a love is death. 

The blessed sweetness of a loving 

breath 
Will reach our cheek all fresh through 

weary years. 
For her who died long since, ah ! waste 

not tears: 
She's thine unto the end. 



What matter if seasons far away 
Have gloom or have double suns? 

To climb the unreal path, 
We lose the roadway here, 

We swim the rivers of wrath 
And tunnel the hills of fear. 

Our feet on the torrent's brink, 
Our eyes on the cloud afar, 

We fear the things we think, 
Instead of the things that are. 

Like a tide our work should rise, 
Each later wave the best, 

To-morrow forever flies. 
To-day is the special test. 

Like a sawyer's work is life; 

The present makes the flaw, 
And the only field for strife 

Is the inch before the saw. 



TO-DAY. 
Only from day to day 
The life of a wise man runs; 
8 



STAR GAZING. 

Let be what is; why siiould we strive and 
wrestle. 
With mobile skill, against a subtle 
doubt ? 
Or pin a mystery with our puny pestle, 
And vainly try to bray its secret out? 

What boots it me to gaze at other planets, 
And speculate on sensate beings there? 
It helps me not, that, since the moon be- 
gan its 
Well-ordered course, it knew no breath 
of air. 

There may be men and women up in 
Venus, 
Where science finds both summer-green 
and snow. 
But we are happier, asking, " have they 
seen us ? 
And, like us earth men, do they yearn 
to know?" 

On greater globes than ours men may be 
greater. 
For all things we see in proportion 
run; 



114 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



But will it make our poor cup any 
sweeter 
To think a nobler Shakespeare thrills 
the sun? 

Or that our sun is but itself a minor, 
Like this small earth — a tenth-rate sa- 
tellite, 
That swings submissive round an orb di- 
viner. 
Whose day is lightened, with our day 
for night ? 

Or, further still, that that sun has a cen- 
ter, 
Round which it meanly winds a servile 
road; 
Ah, will it raise us or degrade, to enter 
Where that sun's Shakespeare towers 
almost to God ? 

No, no; far bet'er, "lords of all creation," 

To strut our ant-hill and to take our 

ease; 

To look aloft and say, " That constellation 

Was lighted there my regal sight to 

please ! " 

We owe no thanks to so-called men of 
science, 
Who demonstrate that earth, not sun, 
goes round ; 
'Twere better think the sun a mere ap- 
pliance, 
To light man's villages and heat his 
ground. 

There seems no use in asking or in hum- 
Wing; 
The mind incurious has tlie most of 
rest. 
If we can live and laugh and pray, not 
grumbling, 
'Tis all we can do here— and 'tis the 
best. 

The throbbing brain will burst its tender 
raiment 
With futile force, to see by finite light 
How man's brief period and eternal pay- 
ment 
Are weighed as equal in the Infinite 
sight. 



'Tis ail in vain to struggle with abstrac- 
tion— 
The milky way that tempts our mental 
glass; 
The study of mankind is earth born ac- 
tion ; 
The highest wisdom, let the wondering 
pass. 

The Lord knows best; He gave us thirst 
for learning; 
And deepest knowledge of his work 
betrays 
No tliirst left waterless. Shall our soul- 
yearning 
Apart from all things, be a quenchless 
blaze? 



WILLIAM GEOGHEGAN. 



William Geogliegan was born in Bally- 
malion, County Longford, Ireland, in 1844. 
He came to America in 1862, and has 
been a frequent contributor to the Cath- 
oMc press of this country. He has twice 
visited Ireland since coming to America, 
and on his first visit was arrested by the 
English authorities as a suspicious char- 
acter. He was, however, soon set at lib- 
erty. His poems are distinguished foi 
their melody and thoughtfuluess. 



PASSING STORMS. 

Though winds grow chill, though stately 
forest-queen, 
Crimson robed maple, sheds her bur- 
nished leaves; 
Though silver-robed hoar-frost hath de- 
posed 
King Autumn from his throne of golden 
sheaves. 

What recks it ? On the soft ^olian harp 
Of lovers' memories, for you and me. 

There is no note of Winter,— all its 
strings 
Are ever tuned to Summer harmony. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



115 



Whirls the gray plover o'er the heatner'd 
moor, 
Bare, brown and sere, upon his devious 
way; 
No oraen sinister, to fright us, love,— 
We have a safeguard, let who will say 
"Nay." 

Ah, well-a-day, the passion-flower folds 
Her gorgeous draperies, and lays them 
by 
For a long season, whilst a parting tear 
Falls dewy from her pure, regretful 
eye. 

Th« white flocks crowd beneath the 
friendly trees, 
All scared, and panting, with the con- 
sciousness 
Of ill impending; and the birds 
Pipe querulous in troops their dire dis- 
tress. 

For, see, a black cloud bursts across the 
dun 
That lines the horizon of the lowering 
skies; 
The tempest-gnome is wrathful and the 
fire 
Of furious mischief lurks within his 



Closer to me, love ! Covert needs the rose 

From sudden onset of the ruthless 

storm; 

The sturdy briar no fostering shelter 

craves, 

So that in its bosom the rose lies warm. 

'Tis past— the wild storm-spirit is ap- 
peased— 
A jeweled rainbow shows athwart the 
sky; 
Shines out the sufl-god from the tearful 
clouds, — 
Not Nature raourneth; why, then, you 
and I ? 

It is not Autumn, 'tis not Winter yet— 
Mingle the two, yet neither holdeth 
sway; 



'Tis Summer-time, for us at least, dear 
wife; 
And whilst our sun shines, we " will 
make our hay ! " 



A MORNING DREAM. 

I, far removed from meadows green. 

From tranquil shade or woodland 
lawns. 
Lie in my attic, all alone, 

A.nd dream the while the morning 
dawns. 
About my brain there flit, like birds. 

Thoughts of a past suriiassing fair; 
I hear old untorgotten words. 

Remembered footsteps on the stair. 

Old odors, olden songs, perhaps — 

Sleep seems to melt them into one- 
Come back, and all the long elapse 

Of time rolls back to days long gone. 
I know I'm dreaming; if I wake 

I shall descend to narrow days 
And petty cares, which grudge and take 

The time I'd spent in other ways. 

My daily labor, hard and stern. 

Gives me so little, takes so much; 
Gives me such wages as I earn. 

But chills my life with icy touch. 
Tiiere's nothing left. Vainly I think 

In duty done to find content; 
Each dawning day wakes me to shrink 

From life, from which the soul seems 
rent. 

This is my happiest hour, this time. 

Brief moment of my morning dream, 
Before I hear the unwelcome chime, 

Sounding more in rain than gleam. 
'Tis then I smell the lilies white. 

Whose tall stem swayed in that still 
place. 
Half garden, half a desert bright. 

Where last I saw you face to face. 

I see you as you stood, I hear 

Your voice that mingled with the birds'. 
And all the sounds far off and near. 

Making a prelude to your words. 



imamngnnmn 



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THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



I look beyond, across the world, 
To where the whidmill stood, and 
hurl'd 

Its giant arms, that turned and roll'd 
In dizzy motion, quiclfly whirled. 

I see the pigeons wheeling high 

Above our heads; the golden beea. 
Treasured with honey-laden tliigh, 

Like winged insect argosies. 
I see it all; it fades and dies 

Into the gray of waking hours, 
As rainbows fade in Summer skies. 

Whose bnlUant color mocked the flow- 
ers. 

Oh weary light ! that comes to glad 

A hundred hearts, no smile you bring 
To me, whose heart, though now so sad. 

Was once as light as swallow's wing. 
Oh fields ! where never more my feet 

Will tread, as in the long ago. 
In dreams I smell your fragrance sweet, 

And see the corn-flowers sway and 
blow. 

JOHN B. TABB. 

1845 • 

John B. Tabb was born in Amelia Coun- 
ty, Virginia, March 22, 1845, and educated 
in tile Episcopalian creed. On September 
8, 18T2, Mr. Tabb became a Catholic, since 
which time he has made his home at St. 
Charles College, near Ellicott City, Md. 
He has written much for various literary 
journals. We select two of his poems — 
the first from LippincoW s Monthly, and 
the other from Harper's. 



TO SHELLEY. 

Shelley, the wondrous music of thy soul 
Breathes in the cloud and in the sky- 
lark's song, 
That float as an embodied dream along 
The dewy lids of Morning. In the dole 
That haunts the west wind, in the joyous 

roll 
Of Arethusan fountains, or among 
The wastes where Ozymandias the strong 



Lies in colossal ruin, thy control 

Speaks in the wedded rhyme. Thy spirit 

gave 
A fragrance to all Nature, and a tone 
To inexpressive Silence. Each apart— 
Eartli, Air and Ocean— claims thee as its 

own. 
The twain that bred thee, and the panting 

wave. 
That clasped thee, like an overflowing 

heart. 



THE CLOUD. 

Far, on the brink of day, 
Thou standest as the herald of the dawn. 
Ere fades the -light's last flickering spark 
away 

In the rich blaze of naorn. 

Above i;he eternal ^nows, 
By Winter scattered on the mountain 

height 
To shroud the centurica, thy visage glows 

With a prophetic light. 

Calm is thin*3 awful i)row : 
As when thy presence diirined divinity. 
Between the flaming ciiembim, so now 

Its shadow clings to *ihee. 

Yet, as an angel mild, 
Thou, in tlie torrid noon, with sheltering 

wing. 
Dost o'er the earth, as on a weary child, 

A soothing influence bring. 

And when the evening dies, 
Still to thy fringed vesture cleaves the 

light. 
The last sad glimmer of her tearful eyes, 

On the dark verge of night. 

So, soon thy glories wane ! 
Thou, too, must mourn the rose of morn- 
ing shed : 
Cold creeps the fata! shadow o'er thy 
train. 
And settles on thy head. 

And, while the wistful eye 
Yearns for the charm that wooed its rav- 
ished gaze, 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



117 



The sympathy of Nature wakes a sigh, 
And thus its tliought betrays : 

Thou, like the cloud, my soul. 
Dost, in thyself, of beauty nauglit possess ; 
Devoid the Uglit of Heaven, a vapor foul, 

The veil of nothingness. 

MARCELLA A. FITZGERALD. 

1845 • 

Miss Fitzgerald was born in Canada, 
February 23, 1845. Her family emigrated 
to California in 1851, and located in Gilroy, 
where Miss Fitzgerald has since resided. 
Since 1865 she has been a constant con- 
tributor to the press. Many of her poen)s 
have attracted deserved attention. "We 
are pleased to note that Miss Fitzgerald's 
poems will soon appear in book form. 



DONNER LAKE. 

Like a gem in rarest setting, or a poet's 
dream of beauty. 
Or that haven which a pilgrim pictures 
in his thoughts of rest, 
Is the lake which lies encircled by t'.io 
fairest, sweetest blossoms. 
Sentineled by giant pine trees near the 
tall Sierra's crest. 

O'er its waves of crystal clearness lightly 
dance the mountain zephyrs, 
And across the fringing grasses come 
the timid deer to drink, 

While the song birds carol gayly many a 
joyous glee and anthem, 

• Resting on the branches bending down- 
ward to the water's brink. 

Looking on it in the glory of the Sum- 
mer's fairest moments. 
Who would deem its echoes ever heard 
the wild despairing cry 
Of that little band of heroes who had 
toiled through many dangers, 
By its margin then so lonely, there 10 
famish and to die. 

When those lofty pines were writhing in 
the storm king's fierce embraces. 



And the Winter's snow had drifted, 
forming barriers broad and deep. 
While the craggy heights beyond it in 
their weird and grin) outlining. 

To the traveler's straining vision seemed 
an ogre's castle keep. 

Here they rested worn and weary, ihe 

bright visions which allured them, 

Vailed behind the cload whose darkness 

low and dense obscured their way ; 

The wide vales of peace and plenty which 

their eager fancy painted. 

Lying still so far beyond them at the 

Western gates of day. 

Who can paint the dreary picture of those 
sadly length'ning hours. 
When the moments, sorrow- freighted, 
slowly dragged their iron chain. 
While af'ross the tortured spirits of the 
sufferers came the haunting 
Memories of the homes whose comforts 
they would never see again. 

Pictures of the happy evenings spent 
around the blazing hearth-side. 
Or when mirth and music cheered them 
round the joyous festal board ; 
Came to mock them 'mid the gnawing of 
the fearful pangs of hunger. 
Or when 'mid the echoing mountains 
loud and fierce the tempest roared. 

But from out the gloomy shadows which 
o'erhang that distant period. 
Shine the names of valiant women, 
noble heroines who wrought 
Marvels for their starving children, and 
with words of hope and cheering— 
Courage to the fainting spirits of their 
hapless comrades brought. 

Valiant women ! noble mothers ! give to 
them a deathless glory 1 
Laurels brighter than the warrior bring- 
eth from the battle field. 
Write their name in fadeless letters on 
our land's historic records. 
Who, though facing death and danger, 
to despair would never yield. 



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TH^ HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



They liave passed unto their eiierdon, and 
oh ! children, loved so fondly ! 
Let no cloud obscure the brightness of 
their memory thro' tlie years ; 
Cherish it with fond affection, teach your 
children to revere it, 
Keep it green with the bedewing of 
your love's sincerest tears. 

How the grand old pines of Donner seem 
to breathe tiie story over. 
As their murmurings sound like echoes 
of the prayers heard long ago, 
Sighing still as though in pity for the an- 
guish which they witnessed. 
For the heart-break and the sorrow, for 
the agony and woe. 

Lake of weird romantic beauty ! for the 
sake of friends who bravely 
Quaffed the chalice of affliction by thy 
waters at that time, 
For their sake, true friends and cherished, 
do I dare to make this offering, 
To thy beauties and thy memories, of 
this simple wreath of rhyme. 



CHARLES H. A. ESLING. 

1845 . 

Charles H. A. Esling was born in Phila- 
delphia, in 1845, and is now conducting a 
flourishing law practice in that city. He 
has written many beautiful poems. 



THE FOUNTAIN AT FAIRMOUNT. 

[Verses dedicated to the Catholic Temperance 
Societies of the United States, on the occasion 
o the completion of their Centennial monu- 
ment, and the full payment of the debt there- 
on, July 4, lb78.] 

0. fairer than Bandusian fount. 

Whereof Horatian numbers sung, 
Purer than sheam on Helicon's mount 

Beneath Pegasian hoof that sprung; 
For here no form of impure love 

Her traits voluptuous mirrored views. 
But Freedom floats thy mists above, 

Eucrowued by Ills' brightest hues. 



Bright guardians here claim privileged 
place. 

Prudence 'neath sainted Carroll's form^ 
And Justice stands with equal grace, 

By him of Carrolltou upborne; 
While Barry's lion-hearted mien 

Bespeaks hiiu Fortitude's own son; 
And Temperance stands with brow se- 
rene. 

Where gentle Matthew's place is won. 

Pulaski, Kosciusko, Meade, 

De Grasse, Orono, Lafayette, 
Apostles these of Freedom's creed. 

Whose sculptured forms are in thee set. 
Their warrior martyr spirits dwell, 

Each in its graven image bound, 
And breathe their grand heroic spell 

In thy "Valhalla's marble round. 

And over all doth Moses staud, 

And strike the water-giving rock. 
Grand type of this rock-breasted land 

Whose bosoms 'neath the law-giving 
stroke 
Of Freedom, bursts in founts of joy. 

Like Polar streams whence virtues start. 
And for whose draughts without alloy 

The world doth pant as pants the hart. 

And more life-giving than the Spring 

Which Ponce De Leon vainly sought. 
For here no syren voice doth sing, 

Youth's mythic fountain yielding 
naught ; 
But he who hither bends his quest 

Shall find life's cup no sparkling lie. 
He has the pledge of Sichar's guest— 

" Wlio drinks of me shall never die." 

Bethsaida's crowded colonades, 

The healing of Siloe's pool, 
Eaeria's leafy cloister shades, 

Where kings sought wisdom's rustic 
school: 
All tliese thy beauteous form recalls, 

All fairy virtues near thee dwell, 
All sweetest memories haunt thy walls. 

Whence is thy power? What is thy 
speU? 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



119 



Would we that some divining rod— 

As was to ancient wizards given — 
Were ours, to pierce tlie fragrant sod, 

Wliicli liolds tliy secret that, upriven, 
Would prove far sweeter than the spells 

That charmed young lovers to their 
tryst 
Beside enchanted wishing wells? 

The potent magic would be— List ! 

A serpent once, old legends tell, 

By Ciiarlemagne freed from toad-shaped 
dragon, 
A gem enriched with love's sweet spell. 

In gratitude, dropped in his flagon ; 
And whosoever held the stone 

The Emperor's love the while did win, 
Till Bishop Turpin it had thrown 

Old Aachen's crystal lake within. 

Then long beside the healthful stream 

The Emperor his sweet vigil kept, 
Watching entranced by love's sweet 
dream. 

The gem that 'neath the waters slept; 
Till, strengtheneii by the magic powers 

The stone was in the water brewing. 
He reared there Aix La Chapelle's tow- 
ers 

In memory of the wondrous doing. 

Ye conquerors of sin's venomous toad, 

Than Charlemagne's fame yours is far 
truer, 
The Brazen Serpent hath bestowed 

On you this gem, his cunning cure; 
When in temptation's sparkling bowl 

The amulet of grace he sank. 
Changed by that antidote's control. 

Love's virgin-making wine you drank 

For Him, when He was lifted up 

And felt the bondage of love's thirst, 
Rejected sin's embittered cup. 

Uplifted on the spear that burst 
The opening in His sacred heart, 

From whence the mystic life-stream 
flowed. 
Sin's spear become the victor's dart 

His freedom in man's own bestowed. 



Unto Him thirsting gave ye drink 

When from drink's bondage ye had 
risen. 
In gratitude His love did sink 

Upon your souls, for Him in prison 
Ye had visited and freed. 

And now you know the measure given 
Of promised blissfulness, indeed. 

To who the captive's chains have riven. 

In memory of this victory high. 

Your soul's new freedom, ye now 
here. 
On Freedom's day, 'neath Freedom's sky. 

This beauteous shaft of triumph rear. 
And by Religion's guiding hand • 

Have in these spotless waters cast 
Your pledge to Self, Faith, Fatherland, 

Drawn from the cup of vices past. 

This, then, the secret spell that guides 

Your footsteps to this hallowed ground, 
Tiial 'neath this fountain's gushing tides 

The gem that won your souls lies 
bound. 
And ye, like Charlemagne, sit and trace 

This lesson in the water's glow; 
High o'er the treasure of God's grace 

The fountains of his sweetness flow. 

Like Israel's children, stay not camped 

Beside this Elim's palms and waters, 
March on, your souls with victory stamped 

Unmurmuring through life's desert 
quarters. 
Sigh not for Egypt's pots again, 

In thirst and trials hail your Moses, 
His prayer brought manna and the rain 

Tliat from the rock his rod uncloses. 



BROTHER AZ ARIAS. 

1847 . 

Brother Azarias was born June 29, 1847. 
He received the habit of the Brothers of 
the Christian Schools, June 29, 1862. For 
sixteen years past he nas been teaching 
in Rock Hill College, EUicott City, Md., of 
which institution he was made president, 
November 10, 1879. 



120 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



MILTON. 

Into the heaven of hoavcns 1 liavc presumed, 
An earthly guest, and drawn empyreal fire. 

— Paradise Lost, b. 7. 

Irreverent Milton ! bold I deem thy fliglit; 

Unsanctified, unbidden, thou didst whig: 

Thy patbleaa way off tow'rd the secret 

spring 

Of God's decrees, and read them not 

arlglit; 
Thou sought to do what no man mortal 
miglit, 
Still thence a speech majeslical didst 

bring, 
And there o'erheard some angels whis 
per in g 
Of Eden's bliss, and from thy lofty 

height 
Surveyed all starry space, both far and 
wide. 
And saw hell's deepest depths and tor- 
tures dire, 
And viewed the darkling works of demon 
pride. 
And in the glowings of poetic tire. 
What time tliy heart felt age's chilly 

hand. 
Embodied all in language stately, grand. 



SONNET. 

[Written on seeing a very touching picture 
of a woiuiiled Christian Brother on a battle- 
field. It is commemorative of Brother Xethelm, 
who was killed while attending to the wounded 
and dying atBourget. Under the picture is the 
sentiment : " Soldat du Christ — 1870-71 — Par- 
Hotisme et Devouement.''} 

Gazing serene upon the battle din- 
No fear, no awe struck terror, hath a 

place, 
'Mid the fierce carnage, on his placid 
face; 
There, only thoughts which God's good 

pleasure win- 
Seated upon the earth, he leaneth in 
Against the spade wherewith a little 

space 
Away, he 'gan a soldier's grave to 
trace, 
When, through his heart the fatal ball did 
spin . 



His life-blood oozeth through the sign of 
peace 
Upon his breast; the red cross redder 
still 
It makes; his tlutt'ring pulses slowly 
cease 
To time the deeds that went his days to 

mi; 

An i calmly, sweetly fades his life away. 
As fades the twilight of a cloudless day. 



JOHN LOCKE. 

1847 . 

John Locke was born in Kilkenny, Ire- 
land, in lSi7, and came to this country in 
1808. He was for a time editor of the 
New York Emerald and Celtic Weekly, 
and has written for many Catholic pub- 
lications. 



EVENING BY THE HUDSON. 

Here I sit this silent even by the broad, 

blue Hudson's side, 
While the flow'rets, fondly drooping, kiss 

the ripples on its tide : 
AH the clouds are blushing crimson, and 

the sunset's lingering ray 
Lights the long, green maple woodland, 

stretching westward far away — 
While the wind rolls up the vapors to the 

mountains of the West, 
And the cloud with folded pinions, bears 

the round moon in its breast. 

But to me those evening beauties bring 
no thoughts of joy or pride. 

For my weary heart is wand'ring o'er the 
ocean's troubled tide. 

To a valley in green Erin, where the 
streamlets sweetly sing — 

Where the winds creep thro' the clover, 
and the clover blossoms swing. 

Where the lilies shinnner over blue la- 
goons of sunny sheen. 

And the poplar woodland shadows park- 
land slope and pasture green — 

Where the bright-eyed village maidens 
i while away the Sabbath noon, 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



121 



And my youthhood's years rolled over- 
years tliat rolled away too soon I 

Oh ! that happy time of boyhood, when 

the sunshine of the Spring 
Was not half so bright or glowing as my 

soul's imaginings ! 
When my young heart filled with gladness 

like a glade with sununer flow'rs, 
On the magic wings of Fancy roamed 

thro' Dreamland's rosy bow'rs, 
Singing lays of love to Ireland, weaving 

sonnet-wreaths for Moy, 
Twining garlands for my Kathleen till 

the Summer passed away. 

Now I welcome not the Maytime, for its 

winds chaut in mine ears 
Naugiit but weary, woe-filled dirges for 

the hopes of buried years : 
Summer comes with fruit and blossom, 

but no garlands now 1 twine. 
For a weary weight of sorrow and a 

broken heart are mine ; 
Still beside this western river, mem'ries 

of the olden days 
Come at times like autumn sun-gleams 

struggling thro' the harvest liaze. 

Years have rolled since I and Kathleen 

roamed around the fairy rath ; 
Many shadows since have fallen on the 

exile's darkened patli : 
Ah those cold, cold years of exile have 

been bitter years to me. 
For where'er my footsteps turned still 

my heart strayed o'er the sea, — 
Back again to those who loved me, to the 

maid who night ami day. 
Ever sent her dearest blessings to the 

wand'rer far away. 

Now blow soft, ye winds of ocean, and 

bear tidings unto me. 
Of the friends at home in Erin o'er the 

far Atlantic sea ; 
For tho' friends or home or country Fate 

may ne'er again restore, 
Round my heart their memories olden 

shall be twined for evermore. 



ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 

1848 '. 

Eleanor C. Donnelly was born in Piiil- 
adelphia, September 6, 1848. She is an 
exceedingly prolific writer, and has pub- 
lished several volumes of religious verses. 
During the war she wrote many spirited 
ballads. To one of these, "Missing," we 
accord a very high rank. 



THOMAS MOORE. 
May 28, 1779 — May 28, 1879. 
'Twixt the waning of Spring and the 
Summer's sweet dawning. 
Ere the May-blossoms drooped on Ihe 
bosom of June, 
Thy coming, great bard, was in Nature's 
fair morning, 
When the sun of her seasons was 
rounding to noon. 

No breath of the Winter thy natal-day 
chilling ; 
The Muses beheld thee that morning, 
'tis said, 
With a rose in thy mouth, and a nightin- 
gale trilling 
His exquisite song at the side of thy 
bed. 

Oh ! surely no lips to the flowers were 
dearer 
Than thine, where the rose-leaves of 
fancy lay furl'd ; 
And no nightingale's lay could be ssveeter 
or clearer 
Than the song thou wert destined to 
sing to the world I 

The glories of Erin, her lights and her 
shadows. 
The limpid delights of her loughs and 
her streams, 
Tiie blue of her heavens, the green of 
her meadows. 
Were imaged, dear bard, in thy beauti- 
ful dreams. 

Her joy was thy joy, and her sorrow thy 
sorrow ; 



132 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



Beside the blest graves of her heroea 
and kings, 
Tliou hast cauglit the old harp from the 
lone walls of Tara, 
And struck a new strain from its moul- 
dering strings. 

Now soft as a zephyr, now fierce as a 
whirlwind, 
The breath of thy muse love or hate 
can inspire ; 
The gladness and grief of beloved old 
Ireland, 
Out-ringing, by turns, from the chords 
of thy lyre. 

If love from her limbs could have stricken 
the fetters, 
How gladly thy hand would have brok^ 
en her chains ! 
In the soil of her freedom, her children 
(thy debtors) 
Would long since have cradled thy 
cherished remains ! 

But what the' her wrongs thro' the cen- 
turies reeling, 
Embalm thee with tears ? Erin, help- 
less and poor. 
Still clings to the treasures of fancy and 
feeling 
Ensnrined in the magical music of 
Moore. 

Oil ! well was it said, tho' the king rule 
the nation, 
Tho' the making of laws to the states- 
man belongs, 
Who reigns first, who reigns last in the 
hearts of creation. 
Is the God-given poet who maketh our 
songs ! 

Place the crown on his head, place his 
hand on the helm 
Of national glory — a king by God's 
grace — 
Tliou art monarch, Moore, of a marvel- 
ous realm, 
AntI lliy throne's the warm hearts of 
thine own Irish race ! I 



MISSING. 

In the cool, sweet hush of a wooded 
nook. 
Where the May-buds sprinkle the green 
old ground. 
And the wind and the birds and the lim- 
pid brook 
Murmur their dreams with a drowsy 
sound; 
Who lies so still in the plushy moss. 
With his pale cheek press'd to a breezy 
pillow, 
Couch'd where the light and the shadows 
cross 
Thro' the flickering fringe of the wil- 
low ? 
Who lies, alas ! 
So still, so chill, in the whispering grass? 

A soldier, clad in the Zouave dress, 
A bright-haired man, with his lips 
apart. 
One hand thrown up o'er his frank, dead 
face. 
And the other clutching his pulseless 
heart, 
Lies there in the shadows cool and dim, 
His musket brushed by a trailing 
bough ; 
A careless grace in each quiet limb. 
And a wound on his manly brow: 
A wound, alas ! 
Whence the warm blood drips on the 
pleasant grass. 

The violets peer from their dusky beds 
With a tearful dew in their great pure 
eyes; 
The lilies quiver their shining heads. 

Their pale lips full of a sad surprise; 
And the lizard darts through the glisten- 
ing fern. 
And the squirrel rustles the branches 
hoary; 
Strange birds fly out, with a cry, to burn 
Their wings in the sunset glory. 
While the shadows pass 
O'er the quiet face on the dewy grass. 

(iod pity the bride who waita at home, 
With her lily cheeks and her violet eyes, 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



15>8 



Dreaming the sweet old dream of love, 

While the lover is walking in Paradise! 
God strengthen her heart as the days go 
by, 
And the long, drear nights of her vigils 
follow. 
Nor bird, nor moon, nor whispering wind 
May breathe the tale of the hollow ! 
Alas ! alas ! 
The secret is safe with the woodland 
grass. 

HENRY O'MEARA. 

1849 . 

Henry O'Meara was born in 1849. He 
was for twelve years connected with the 
Boston Pilot, and has been a frequent 
contributor to the Boston press. He is 
now attached to the staff of the Boston 
Daily Journal. 



THE LAST DAY OF POMPEII. 
Full eighteen hundred years, like cinders 

down Vesuvius' side, 
Have passed o'er dead Pompeii since her 

awful, fated tide 
Of flame and livid lava fell, engulfing 

deep in gloom 
Her homes, her pomp, her very site, in 

one vast living tomb. 
Festive the day broke over broad Cam- 
pania's plain and town. 
And even grim Vesuvius' brow for once 

forgot to frown. 
While all encircling hills exulted in the 

morning breatli, 
When doomed Pompeii's people thronged 

to glut their eyes on death. 
The gaudy villas smiled above the mist 

and valley then, 
Her red-tiled roofs and time-worn towers 

rose young and gay again: 
Forum and stately arcli of triumph spoke 

tlie coming strife — 
Porial and crowning statue \»elco»ned 

each new stream of life. 
But through th' inspiring scene tiie Eider 

Pliny, wise as brave, 



Foreboding sees the trembling shore re- 
pel the tardy wave, 

And, listening, hears with trembling 
heart a murmur hoarse and deep, 

Along the beauteous river's bank and 
laughing valley creep — 

"The gods protect the guiltless! venge- 
ful Orcus bursts with ire " — 

Swift the velaria tent reveals the moun- 
tain's frightful fire ! 

The gladiator, quivering low, is left to 
rise or die; 

The lion, roaring fiercely, turns like all 
the rest to fly. 

Night to the realms of Noon with rushing 
darkness comes on all — 

Vesuvius' vapor, shaped like monstrous 
pine trees,* spreads a pall. 

In vain the priest of Isis strives to light 
the sacred flame, 

In vain the guard of mighty Rome proves 
worthy of the name; 

The late Goniiorrah, as the old, in ashes 
smiles at last. 

Her day is come, her doom is sealed, her 
pride and life are past 

And yet exhumed Pompeii lives again to 

tell her story- 
Clearer than Pliny's classic page, to show 
her age and glory. 

Thus oft o'erpowering fate, that seems to 
leave the heart forlorn, 

Serves but to save men's thought and 
worth for ages yet unborn. 

As still in fame survives, above her ashes 
and her woe, 

The city burned and buried eighteen hun- 
dred years ago. 



THE SISTER OF NOTRE DAME. 

sister parted, yet a sister stdl. 
Though claiming now a name we little 
knew. 
Why take a trustful heart with steadfast 
will 
From those life's very tendons bind to 
you ? 



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THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



Vocation sweet allures you to your Lord, 
To find content in cloistered Notre 
Dame, 

Ah heart and bein^ all in grand accord, 
Clioose Ad majorem Dei Gloriam. 

His greater glory now ensiirines our pain, 

His mercy mitigation soft insures, 
His love can well your life and death en- 
ciiaiii^ 
Whose hallowed natal day is haply 
yours. 
Then as you yield to him a soul sincere. 
Oft may your patron yet the gift re- 
new, 
And by some grace of transmigration 
here, 
Your virgin-patron live again in you. 

Religion's gains now more our loss de- 
crease — 
This choice of lot is but a happy taste; 
Ours— sand e'er swept by Passions swift 
caprice. 
Yours— cool oasis 'mid a worldly waste. 
doubly sister, that such chains entwine, 
What faithful light through doubtful 
years and dim, 
To look toward one who yearns for 
Spouse Divine, 
And calmly leaves us evermore to cleave 
to Him ! 



ELIZABETH CARMEL HENDRY. 

1849 • 

Elizabeth Carmel Hendry was born in 
St. Louis, Mo., May 5, 1849, and removed 
with her family to Philadelphia in 1855. 
Hiss Hendry is best known by her prose 
writings, her poems having, in nearly 
every case, been published anonymouslj'. 
She wrote the first original stories that 
appeared in the Philadelphia Catholic 
Standard and Guardian Angel, to both 
of which papers she has been for many 
years an occasional contributor. She has 
also published several small volumes of 
tales for children and many translations 
from the French and Italian. 



LENORE'S CHOICE. 

I asked, on the day of her nuptials, 
Of my beautiful niece Lenore, 
"Which of tile flowers, my darlfng. 
Will you cull from my garden store? 
Here are fair orange blossoms. 
Befitting a bride so well. 
With the words of gracious greeting. 
The poets say they tell; 
And here are bridal roses 
That breathe of Happy Love; 
True emblems of your future, sweet, 
God send that they may prove !" 
Lenore's fair face grew pensive. 
And slie raised her eyes to mine, 
"Over life's path, dear aunt," she said, 
"The sun does not always shine. 
And for me in that liidden future. 
Though its promises brightly glow, 
May be many an hour of sadness. 
And many a cause for woe. 
So give me the flowers of Devotion, 
And of Patience, these teachers sweet. 
Whose golden blossoms are shining 
So brightly at our feet: 
That, learning their holy lessons, 
1 may treasure them in my heart, 
And go forth bravely, strengthened 
To fulfill my allotted part." 



VINTON AUGUSTINE GOD- 
DARD. 

1850—1876. 
Vinton Augustine Goddard, son of the 
late Hon. Daniel Converse Goddard, was 
born in Washington, D. C, February 16, 
1850, and died March 2, 187t5. He entered 
the West Point Military Academy in 1867, 
and graduated in June, 1871. He was 
placed on the staff of General' Pope, and 
served on the frontier and elsewhere. In 
1S73 he applied for duty at Alaska, and 
while serving there contracted an illness 
whicii resulted in his death. He was a 
ready and graceful writer, and had he 
devoted his attention to literature, would 
have doubtless lived to render his name 
famous. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



12.J 



THE CROSS OF CALVARY. 

COMPOSED AT TEN YEARS OF AGE, BY VINTON A. 
GODDARD. 

While wandering up tlie mountain sid*', 
Before me I a cross espied, 
On wliicli I lie bleeding Jesus liung, 
His soul with grief and anguish wrung, 
Upon the Cross of Calvary. 

Beneath the Cross His Mother stood, 
And bathed with tears the blood-stained 

wood, 
For how could Mother see her son , 
By Jewish hands, thus rudely hung, 

Upon the Cross of Calvary ? 

Tlie cruel spear pierced through His side 
By wicked men for whom He died; 
His Mother's heart with anguish thrilled, 
While o'er Her form, His blood dis'illed, 
From the rude Cross of Calvary ! 

Oh, loved and holy Cross of yore, 
Thy sacred wood we ail adore; 
On thy rough bed my Lord reclined. 
Which makes thee blest to all mankind — 
The Saving Cross of Calvary. 



REV. WILLIAM T. TKEACY, S. J . 

1850 . 

Rev. Father Ti'eacy was born in 1850, 
and at an early age entered the novitiate 
of the Society of Jesus. He is now sta- 
tioned at Gonzaga College, Washington, 
D. C. He has written many lyrical poems, 
which are sweet and tender. 



TO THE REV. ABRAM J. RYAN, 

ON THE OCCASION OF HIS VISIT TO WOODSTOCli 
COLLEGE, CHRISTMAS T]DE, l88o. 



Loved Priest, loved Bard, how like my 
native isle. 
My heart hath found tliose sweet, sad 
songs of thine; 
Bright beaming through their mist of 
tears— the smile 
Of holy Faith is seen, a peace-lit, rain- 
bow sign. ' 



n. 

Like pure and holy wells to light, they 
spring 
From sacred cells, deep, deep, within 
thy breast; 
To darkened hearts bright cups of joy 
they bring. 
To wearied souls they waft the balm of 
rest. 

IIL 
The stars of hope sleep on their floods of 
woe. 
And on their waves forever floats a 
prayer; 
The Cross is shining in their depths below. 
And o'er them glows the arch of heavens 
fair. 

IV. 
Along their shores is lieard the surge of 
war, 
A Nation's soul is in their sorrowed tone, 
A people's wail they carry near and far; 
"The tield is lost, though with our deaci 
'tis strewn." 

V. 

"The field is lost ! " no, not lost. Not 
lost, 
Since one great master hand was found 
to thrill 
The earth with pity for the blood it cost, 
And love for generous hearts forever 
still. 

VL 
•'Tlie Conquered Banner," shall forever 
wave 
In pride above the dark, green towers 
of time. 
And bright shall gleam the stainless 
Southern glave, 
Now glorified in deathless songs sub- 
lime. 

VIL 
The Lost, Lost Cause in noble song is wou 
Its Dead still live led on by Robert Lee, 
As long as mountains stand or rivers run, 
Thy songs will give the sliout of —'Vic- 
tory I" 



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THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



WILLIAM D. KELLY. 

1846 . 

William D. Kelly was born in Ireland, 
May 25, 1846, and has resided in the Unit- 
ed States since 1850. He graduated from 
the Boston Latin School in 1864, and from 
Holy Gross College, Worcester, Mass., in 
1866 ; was ordained at Grand Seminary, 
Montreal, January 30, 1870, and is at pres- 
ent living in Boston. 

JUNE. 
Wilh tardy feet, as Spring recedes 
In all the grace her days have brought 
her, 
Lo, in her stead, across the meads, 
Comes June — the Summer's fairest 
daughter ; 
With roses in her tresses caught. 
Her lightsome tread the greensward 
presses, 
While balmy winds, with odors fraught. 
Infold her form in their caresses. 

At sight of her Apollo mends 

His courses through the blue expanses, 
From closer range on earth descends 

The ardor of his burning glances ; 
At earlier hour day's portals ope 

Beneath the pressure of his fingers. 
And when he nears the western slope. 

On slower march his chariot lingers. 

Now from the overcrowded streets. 

Whose torrid heat the city parches. 
The multitudes seek cool retreats 

By breezy shores or woodland arches ; 
Winged vessels skim the foamy tide. 

Strong steamers plow the briny billows, 
And Venus walks the shore beside, 

Wiiile Cupid lurks beneath the willows. 

I know a spot where seaward dips 

A circling beach from fields of clover, 
Where twice each day, with eager lips. 

The ocean, like a giant lover. 
Comes in to kiss the sands that pout 

Beneath his stalwart, fierce embraces. 
And twine his amorous arms about 

The beauties of their dimpled faces. 



Thither, when Summer days grow hot, 

I fly the city's close environs, 
And seek the quiet of that spot. 

Where, sweeter than the songs ol 
syrens. 
The echoes of the rolling surf 

Float over clover-covered meadows, 
And in broad lines across the turf 

The willows fling their grateful shad- 
ows. 

H. W. I. GARLAND. 

1851 . 

Henry Wollaston Ignatius Garland was 
born at King's Lynn, in the county of 
Norfolk, England, April 3, 1851, Mr. 
Garland came to the United States in 
May, 1879, and was for a time assistant 
editor of the Catholic Union. In April, 
1880, he was made editor of the Catholic 
Telegraph, which position he still holds. 



AS THE BOATS COME UP TO LYNN. 

They stand on the bank an eager group 

Of anxious, rough clad fishers' wive?, 
And near them sports a motley troop 

Of comely urchins, making dives 
At times into the turbid tide, 

To bring out sticks and bits of wood, 
That float upon its bosom wide, 

While women watch in pensive mood 
As the boats come up to Lynn. 

The boats they enter, one by one. 

Those storied, stony, beaconed banks, 
And the golden light of the setting sun 

Falls softly on their tarry planks — 
Sheds glories on their sails, bark-tanned. 

Painting them all of a blood-red hue — 
Right proper craft, and each well manned 

With an honest, sturdy fisher crew, 
As tlie boats come up to Lynn. 

They wave their hands and hoarsely shout, 
" Haul in the slack of the sheet ! 

Down with the helm and come about ! 
To run for the Fisher's Fleet ! " 

The "Nonpareil," the "Arrow" bold. 
The " BuUreut," too, is here, 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



127 



The winklers young, in the Bitter " old, 
Ring out a merry cheer, 
As the boats come up to Lynn. 

The sun has set, 'tis growhig dark, 

As alone on the bank 1 stand. 
The full Hood-tide hath left its mark. 

And the night is nigh at hand ; 
Shimmer's the pale moon's beauteous 
beam, 

And the silvern stars, o'er the silent sea, 
And I wake to find 'twas but a dream, 

To wonder if ever they'll think of me. 
As the boats come up to Lynn. 

PATRICK SARSFIELD CASSIDY. 
T851— — . 
Patrick Sarsfield Cassidy was born in 
Dunkeneely, County Donegal, Ireland, 
October 31, 1851. His parents belonged 
to good old Celtic families. He came to 
the United States in 1869. Soon after his 
arrival in New York he was employed by 
the Associated Press, with which he is 
still connected. Mr. Cassidy has written 
"Gleveigh, or the Victims of Vengeance," 
which was a very successful novel, and 
which has been dramatized. He has also 
written frequently for various literary 
journals, in prose and verse. 



WHERE I MET MY LOVE. 

I. 

Sweet is the month of honey and roses. 

Dewy eyes and Jove-liquid moons ; 
Happy the bird on the bough reposes, 
Mingling its notes with the stream's 
soft croons — 
Croon of the stream that strays through 
the meadows, 
Wandtrs along in the woodland's shade. 
Mirroring life in its lights and shadows. 
Bending, graceful, fair as a maid. 

II. 

I met my love in that month all joyant ; 

Fair as a fresh-blown flower was she. 
With step and spirit sunlit and buoyant. 

Tripping along on the upland lea. 



Lightly she pressed the carpet of clover - 
Blossoms bending to kiss her feet ; 

"I marvel much if she hath a lover?" 
T.ius said my heart with a new-fell 
beat. 

IIL 

Month of honey and cheeks of roses. 

Blue- veined temples of Psyche sweep ; 
Eyes as bright as the heaven discloses, 

When, through its portals, angels peep I 
Breath like the scent of the clover blos- 
soms, 
Lips with the virgin dew still wet ; > 
Earth that month from her pregnant 
bosoms 
Distilled all sweets, and she was their 
pet! 

IV. 
The incarnation of all the sweetness 

Nature had lavished on luscious June : 
My heart went out with a spirit's fleet- 
ness— 
Out to her, for it read love's rune- 
Read it in every graceful motion. 

Line and curve of her lissome form ; 
1 loved her then with a life's devotion — 
Love, will love her through shine and 
storm ! 

SE.4-SIDE SONG. 
I. 
The pure, pale star of the Autumn eve 

Beams from the blue like an angel's eye. 
And softly the wayward wavelets heave 
And sink on the strand with a weary 
sigh! 
Oh, I love the ocean's strange unrest, 
And its voice to my fancy evermore 
Says, " Come, come out on my bounding 
breast, 
Out, far out from that dull, dead shore !" 
Then step in my boat, tenderest 
love. 
Let's out on the throbbing sea ; 
With the waves beneath and the stars 
above. 
Right merry, I trow, we'll be ! 
Right merry, I know, we'll be ! 



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THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



n. 

There's breeze sufficient to swell the 
sheet, 
A playful ripple the waters o'er ; 
What blissful hour for a sweet retreat, 
Away from this dull and depressing 
shore I 
Like a cavalier's crest shall the white 
spray flash, 
As careers our white - winged boat 
along, 
With a surging sweep, a sonorous dash. 
Like the rushing surge of a rolling 
song ! 
Then step in my boat, daintiest 
love, 
Let's out on the pulsing sea ; 
With no one to watch save the stars 
above. 
Right loving, I trow, we'll be ! 
Right loving, I know, we'll be ! 

IIL 

I'll steer our boat for the glowing west. 
Where the golden cloudlets kiss the 
sea— 
Tiie heavens are pillowed on the ocean's 
breast. 
And nymphs and angels mingle free ! 
Our chart be yon roundly-rising moon. 
Whose bean)s are soft as thine eyes' 
deep glance ; 
As true to the ocean's deep-toned tune. 
In measures swift shall our fleet boat 
(tance ! 
Then step in my boat, O teuderest 
dear, 
Let's out on the throbbing sea ; 
As away o'er its yielding breast we 
steer. 
Right happy, I trow, we'll be, 
Right happy, I know, we'll be ! 

IV. 

Ah, now we are out on the wandering 
waves. 
Though trodden oft, yet pathless still ! 
Behind are the shore's receding caves. 
And the darkening crown of each dis- 
tant bill. 



Around us soft, mystic voices float ; 
The dulcet notes of the mermaid's 
song 
From tlie waves arise to hail our boat, 
As liglit o'er the deep we dance along 
How bless'd to sweep o'er the sea's 
blue breast, 
Alone with ourselves and love, 
While the listening stars our vows 

attest 
In the eternal courts above. 
In the bowers of bliss above I 

MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. 

1852 . 

Maurice Francis Egan was born in Phil- 
adelphia May 24, 1853. He studied at La 
Salle College, and taught some time at 
Georgetown. He served a journalistic 
apprenticeship on the secular press. He 
has written much for the magazines, 
besides several anonymous society novels. 
He published "Preludes," a volume of 
poems. Mr. Egan is now the associate 
editor of the New York Freeman's Jour- 
nal. Both as a poet and prose writer he 
occupies a front rank. 



DANGEROUS FRANKNESS. 
Inconstant ? And why not, O fair Hel- 

fene? — 
You have the bluest eyes I've ever 

seen, — 
Blue as the violets in that season when 
The flelds and hills are tinged with 

faintest green ; 
But you have not fair Marie's tender voice. 
Or Constance' smile, in which all hearts 

rejoice. 

Inconstant ? Why ? I love the good in all 
The good in one, and, like the roving 
bee 
(Are you bas bleu, fair Heltsne? will you 
call 
My " roving bee" a threadbare simile ?), 
I go Irom flower to fruit, and I love each. 
The faint- tinged rosebud and the car- 
mine peach. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



129 



I love yon for your eyes, fair Hel^ne, 
Your blue, blue eyes, so deep and lim- 
pid-clear. 

In whose deep depths are drowned many 
men— 
And for their hearts have you not shed 
a tear. 

And yet I love dear Rosalind's shy 
grace. 

And— can I help it ?— httle Celia's face. 

I love the good in all, the good in one ; 

Too frank am I ? Can't help it ! 'tis 
my way. 
If you'll be Clytie, I will be the sun, 

And you can follow me about all day. 
And yet I'll smile on all, and that will be 
Love universal, not inconstancy. 

Conceited ? How you wrong me, fair 

Hel^ne! 
I'm not Apollo, and I know that well ; 
But you're not Clytie ; if you were, why 

then 
I'd follow yo '. Good gracious! who 

could tell 
The girl would get so mad ? A temper, 

too! 
I'll never trust in meekest eyes of blue I 



THE OLD VIOLIN. 

Though tuneless, stringless, it lies there 

in dust. 
Like some great thought on a forgotten 

page, 
The soul of music can not fade or rust — 
The voice within it stronger grows with 

age; 
The strings and bow are only trifling 

things— 
A master-touch !— its great soul wakes 

and sings. 



THEOCRITUS. 

Paphnis is mute, and hidden nymphs 
complain, 
And mourning mingles with their 
fountains' song ; 
9 



Shepherds contend no more as all day 
long 
They watch their sheep on the wide, si- 
lent plain. 
The master-voice is silent, songs are vain; 
Blithe Pan is dead, and tales of ancient 

wrong. 
Done by the gods when gods and men 
were strong. 
Chanted to waxM pipes, no prize can 

gain. 
sweetest singer of the olden days, 
In dusty books your idyls rare seem 
dead: 
The gods are gone, but poets never 
die ; 
Though men may turn their ears to 
newer lays, 
Sicilian nightingales, enraptured. 
Caught all your songs, and nightly 
thrill the sky. 



"LIKE A LILAC." 

Like a lilac in the Spring 

Is my love, my lady-love. 
Purple-white the lilacs fling 

Scented blossoms from above: 
So my love, my lady-love, 

Throws sweet glances on my heart; 
Ah, my dainty lady-love. 

Every glance is Cupid's dart 

Like a pansy in the Spring 

Is ray love, my lady-love, 
For her velvet eyes oft bring 

Golden fancies from above; 
Ah, my heart is pansy-bound 

By those eyes so tender-true. 
Balmy heart's-ease have I found, 

Dainty lady-love, in you I 

Like the changeful months of Spring 

Is my love, my lady-love, 
Sunshine comes, and glad birds sing; 

Then a rain-cloud floats above: 
So your moods change with the wind, 

April-tempered lady-love ! 
All the sweeter to my mind. 

You're a riddle, lady-love I 



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THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



MAURICE DE GUERIN. 

The old wine filled him, and he saw, with 

eyes 

Anoint of nature, fauns and dryads fair 

Unseen by others: to him maidenhair 

And waxen lilacs and those birds tiiat rise 

A sudden from tall reeds at slight surprise 

Brought charmed thoughts; and in 

earth everywhere 
He, hke sad Jaques, found unheard 
music rare 
As that of Syrinx to old Grecians wise. 
A pagan heart, a Christian soul, had he : 
He followed Christ, yet for dead Pan he 
sighed. 
Till earth and heaven met within his 

breast: 
As if Theocritus in Sicily 

Had come upon the Figure crucified, 
And lost his gods in deep, Christ-given 
rest. 

KATHERINE ELEANOR CON- 
WAY. 

1852 . 

Katherine Eleanor Conway was born of 
Irish Catholic parents, in Rochester, N. Y., 
September 6, 1852, Since 1868 she has 
contributed, in prose and verse, to various 
publications. She is now employed in 
writing for the Catholic Union, imblished 
at Buffalo, N. Y. 



A SONG IN MAY-TIME. 

A song for the joyful May-time, 
A song like the song of a bird, 

A song of the heart in its play-time. 
With never a sorrowful word ! 

A song — but whence shall I win it? 

Winged like the butterflies. 
With the fresh-leaved woods' breath in it, 

And the glow of the glad sunrise ! 

This is the song you ask, dear, — 

Would I could do your will ! 
But set we a song as a task, dear, — 

A test of the singer's skill? 



A dweller in cities ever, 

A toiler within the walls, — 
'Mid the tumult of man's endeavor, 

Where the unseen fetter galls;— 

Liitle I know of the tender 

Blithe songs that the free birds sing, 
Little I know of the splendor 

Of the wild wood's blossoming; 

And less of the heart's sweet play-time — 
So brief was mine, you know; 

And the flowers of my beautiful May- 
time 
Died under a strange, late snow. 

Out of my hfe the cheery 

Sweet spirit of youth is fled; 
My songs are the sighs of the weary. 

Or plaints for my dear ones dead. 

Yet you've loved this sad song-voice, dear. 
You would give it a nobler range; 

And because of your honor and choice, 
dear, 

'Twere fain to ring out and rejoice, dear, 
With the mirth of tlie May-lime change; 

Oh, joy to be your joy-bringer — 
When 'tis joy, dear, even to pray 

That a fairer and gladder singer 
Will sing your song of the May 1 



AGNES VIVIEN MACLEAN PHE- 
LAN. 

1852 . 

Agnes Vivien MacLean was born in 
London, Ontario, Canada, November 27, 
1852. She was educated at Cedar Grove, 
Cincinnati, and at Nazareth Academy, 
Kentucky, and, in 1880, was married to 
J. Bruce Phelan, A.M., M.D., a physician 
of Chicago. Some of her poems are 
much admired. 

KING HENRY TO HIS QUEEN (MAR- 
GARET OF ANJOU). 

Down the fair turrets fall the rubied rays. 
Death drops of dying day. Dost see my 
queen? 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



131 



They dye my missal-page; the prayer and 
praise 

Seem with Christ's saving Gore incarna- 
dine 

Ah may our souls be thus ensanguined- 
dyed 

In Thy most precious Blood— Cnicified ! 

Art thou impatient — Margaret my queen? 

That my poor tlioughts tend ever Heaven- 
ward ? 

They luiger not on earthly themes, I 
ween — 

On kingly pomp, or stateacraft, or the 
sword. 

More sweet to me one hour with God 
alone 

Than all the splendors of my kingly 
throne. 

Ah me ! This jewelled crown doth cliafe 

my brow. 
(His was of Thorns !) I'll lay it down 

awhile. 
Nay frown not, sweet ; tiiat pure, proud 

face wears now 
An anxious frown more frequent than a 

smile; 
Those beauteous eyes methinks are often 

wet; 
What aileth thee— my fair pear],Margaret? 

Say the proud earls. King Henry's hand 

hath grown 
Too weak to hold the sceptre? {His— a 

reed!) 
My warrior queen 1 Then clasp it with 

thine own. 
For thou a monarch art in every deed. 
King Rene's war-like spirit liveth yet 
Within thy breast, my peerless Margaret. 

For me— I'm weary the troublous strife. 
Warring, ambitious pride and greed of 

gain; 
Too brief the moments of this tristful 

life 
To waste on things so valueless and vain: 
Fadeth the golden west to ghastly gray. 
So fade in death man's fairest hopes 

away. 



From thee, my Rose of Lancaster i how 
fain 

With my heart's shield I'd ward the com- 
ing woe! 

How little dreamed we of the grief and 
pain, 

Tlie traitor-friend — far worse than armed 
foe— 

When England's chivalry with glad ac- 
claim 

Donned the sweet, snowy flower that 
wears thy name; 

Let us go hence, my queen ; for faint and 

far 
I hear the holy sound of vesper hymn. 
See, Margaret ! How yonder silver star 
Hath risen in beauty o'er the vapors dim: 
So may our wearied souls, from earth set 

free, 
Fmd peace at last in Heaven's Eternity. 



THOMAS O'HAGAN. 

i8S3 . 

Thomas O'Hagan was born in Canada, 
Marcii 6, 1853. He was educated at St. 
Michael's College, Toronto. Having com- 
pleted a course of four years in that in- 
stitution he entered the profession of 
teaching, and has, during the past few 
years, lent much assistance to the advance- 
ment of separate schools in his native 
province. He is at present Head Master 
of the separate schools in the city of 
Belleville, Ont. Mr. O'Hagan's special 
characteristics as a writer of both prose 
and poetry are beauty of diction, energy 
and pathos. 



ANOTHER YEAR. 

Another year pass'd over— gone, 

Hope beaming with the new; 
Thus move we on— forever on, 

The many and the few; 
The many— of our childhood days, 

Growing fewer— one by one, 
Till death, in duel with each hfe, 

Proclaims the last is gone. 



132 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



Another year— the buried past 

Lies in its silent grave; 
The stream of life flows ever fast, 

As v?ave leaps into wave. 
Another year— ah ! who can tell 

What memories it may bring 
Of lonely lieart and tearful eye, 

And Hope bereft of wing? 

Another year— the curfew rings; 

Fast cover up each coal. 
The old year dies, the old year dies, 

The bells its requiem toll. 
A pilgrim year has reached its shrine, 

The air with incense glows; 
The spirit of another year 

Comes forth from long repose. 

Another year— with tears and joys 

To form an arch of love; 
Another year to toil with hope, 

Ajid seek for rest above; 
Another year wing'd on its way, 

Eternity the goal ; 
Another year— peace in its train, 

Peace to each parting soul. 



REVERIE. 
At eve, as the sun sinks low in the west. 

And its streamlets are kissing each hill, 
'Tis sweet to recline 'neath a bright Au- 
tumn tree, 
That is brooding in silence so still. 

To watch the dark mantle of night fall 
down 

And wrap the cold shoulders of day; 
O golden hour in the Autumn of life. 

Stay, linger with Hope's bright ray. 

Stay, linger awhile in thy sapphire hues. 
And paint me a vision so bright, 

That the past and the future shall blend 
into one. 
Like a day and a star-cheering night. 

O paint me those sweet-lipp'd hours long 

past. 

When my heart puls'd free from all care; 

When the bright, bright flowers of a rosy 

morn 

Were breathing the incense of prayer. 



Far back, far back in the morning of life. 
Glad memory beckons me on 

To a garden of hope bedash'd with dew, 
Where visions of infancy throng. 

Ah ! yes, I am treading once more the 
path. 
See, here are the lilacs in bloom. 
And the fancy I wove in a wreath one 
day 
To cover some nameless tomb. 

vision of Youth, altar of Trjth, 
golden censer on high, 

1 would that my soul might float, like 

thee. 
In fragrant balm to the sky. 



JOHN CURRAN KEEGAN 

i8s4 . 

John Curran Keegan was born May 13, 
1854, in Stranadara, Ballinamore, Coun'y 
Leitrim, Ireland. He graduated from 
Trinity College, Dublin, and, in the ca- 
pacity of newspaper correspondent, vis- 
ited France, Switzerland and Spain. He 
afterwards declined a position of trust 
under the British government, and came 
to this country, settling in Lowell, Mass., 
where he remained some years. He is 
now engaged in journalism in Chicago. 



"BEAUTY'S VISION." 

It dawned on my soul like a picture of 

light. 
Or a star that illumines the azure of night. 
Sparkling and beautiful, winsome and 

fair— 
The pink of perfection of all that were 

there. 

Ah ! Nature was kind to the work of her 

hand. 
Her model was peerless, accomplished 

and grand ; 
In form a Venus, angelic in face. 
Each movement the queenly expression 

of grace. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



133 



A voice in whose music the magical tone 

Leads hearts to embarrassment, and 
makes them its own; 

And eyes where the fire and luster sub- 
lime 

Glow forth like the lights in the northern 
clime. 

A mind richly stored with the treasures 

of thought- 
Bright gems in the school of intelhgence 

brought, 
A heart where true kindness and virtue 

reside, 
And sense that despises the folly of pride. 

I looked on the vision, 1 turned away. 
Like mortal in dreamland, jet wishing to 

stay. 
I've roamed far away through the world 

since then. 
And shared in the cares and amusements 

of men. 

But that fair vision haunts mo like the 
spirit of light, 

In the heart of noon-day, in the darkness 
of night. 

In moments of sorrow it comes with re- 
lief 

To chase with its brightness the shadow 
of grief. 



ANNA T. SADLIER. 

1855 . 

Miss Anna T. Sadlier was born in Mon- 
treal, Canada, in 1855, and for many years 
resided in New York. She is now living 
in Montreal. She has published several 
excellent translations from the French, 
<5erman and Italian, and has written 
many stories and poems. 



"FAIR." 

Fair, ladye fair, beneath whose gentle 

sway 
Have bowed the jyreux chevaliers of the 

past. 
And sung the troubadour his soul away. 
Too blest if smiled she on his minstrelsy. 



Low at her feet has tourney's victor 
knelt, 

Where sword and lance in mimic fray 
flashed high. 

And low, outpoured with more than min- 
strel skill. 

The knight's sweet tale and tender lover's 
sigh. 

And Fare, to fare on life's stern battle 

field. 
Fare well or ill, and meet whate'er betide. 
In love or war, with glory or with shame, 
When friendly lips applaud, or foes deride, 

Fare, aye to press still onward in the 

race, 
And see beyond the heav'nly domes o'er- 

past, 
Or watch their golden summits fade away. 
And see the leaves of hope strewn in the 

blast. 

Fair, costly fair, where nature and where 

art 
Alike appeal to every human sense. 
Where wit and wealth and beauty all 

combine 
Mankind to dazzle in its impotence. 

A labyrinth wherein the wand'rer finds 
Rare marvels of the artificer's skill, 
Wherein he strays unmindful of the hour, 
Each winding maze new marvels showing 
still. 

Where beauty smiles upon his awe-struck 

sight. 
Till, half forgetting Charity's mild face. 
He feels his bounty still a new delight. 
And wealth invested with a subtle grace. 

So fares the wand'rer at this magic fair, 
Enthralled by wit or beauty's potent spell. 
Forgetting half the purpose of the Fair, 
Yet loath to bid the brilliant scene fare- 
well. 

E'en so, as gazing on the treasures rare. 
Surpassing "Ormuzor the Ind" in cost. 
Can he regret that lured by beauty's smile, 
He staked in many lotteries— and lost? 



134 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



A PARTING. 

It was a silent parting, tliough the stars 
Gazed down upon us with their wistful 
eyes, 
But looking up to them our speech was 
lost, 
For sense of past companionship would 
rise. 

Wherefore we could not choose but word- 
less be ; 
We had no speech to utter our farewell, 
Out in the starshme, with the voice of 
Nature 
Hushed into twilight silence, like a 
knelL 

The knowledge fell upon our hearts, that 
we 
Should for the last, last time together 
staud, 
As even now, in love or friendship, which 
It were, each clasping thus the other's 
hand. 

For that was our farewell, we knew, and 
felt it, 
And turned our faces upward to the 
sky. 
As though in yon bright stars, straight, 
straight above us, 
Some wording of our destiny might lie. 

But there was not, though they, in their 

bright zenith, — 

In vain, astrology, we wooed your arts ; 

The question, yet unuttered with our lips, 

Came straightway from the fullness of 

our hearts. 

And slow as if some destiny had bade. 
Sadly we turned to earth once more our 
eyes, 
And looked into each other's, as if to read 
Some wording of our fate, without dis- 
guise. 

We saw there sadness and unconscious 
pain 
And love, but Uttle hope, and so once 
more 



Essayed to speak the words that brolce 
each bond 
And bade us be as strangers. Hereto- 
fore 

We had been something more, and yet 
not friends, 
A strange companionship had jinked 
eacli heart. 
'Twas over now, we wrung each other's 
hand. 
And in the stars' cold silence stood 
apart. 

ELIOT RYDER. 

1856 . 

Eliot Ryder is the son of the late Rev, 
Almanza S. Ryder, a Unitarian clergy- 
man, and was born in Hubbardston, Mass., 
January 30, 1856. He has been employed 
as a journalist in New York and Boston, 
since 1870. His poems have been con- 
tributed principally to the New York Sw/i. 
He became a Catholic some years ago. 



THE PENITENT AT PRAYER. 

Beneath the grand cathedral's lofty dome 
The penitent kneels on the marble 
floor. 
With eyes uplifted to the heavenly home. 
Which never seemed so far away be- 
fore. 
Slowly and reverently he tells his beads. 

And meditates upon the love of Christ ; 
For him once more his dying Saviour 
bleeds ! 
Once more the Lamb of God is sacri- 
ficed ! 
Peace comes to cheer his heart, and while 
he prays. 
Through the high windows of the dome 
there steals 
A flood of golden sunlight, and the rays 
Fall like a benediction where he 
kneels. 
And through his tears he fancies he can 

trace 
A smile upon the Virgin's pictured 
luce. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



135 



DOLCE FAR NIENTE. 
The round, full moon sheds forth its mel- 
low light : 
The peaceful river glides in calm re- 
pose ; 
The tropic, odor-laden air of night 
Against my boat's white bulwark gen- 
tly blows. 
Far from the uproar of the noisy town 

I drift upon the tranquil stream at ease; 
My meerschaum slowly colors cloudy 
brown ; 
The Spanish weed perfumes the gentle 
breeze ; 
The lazy motion of my drifting boat, 

The balmy sweetness of the tropic air, 
With every care from this fair scene re- 
mote, 
Combine to form a joy divine and rare, 
'Tis hours like these which light life's 

devious ways, 
And cast a glory o'er the coming days. 



THE BEST OF ALL GOOD COMPANY. 

This is my attic room ; the walls and floor 

Are bare of all the luxuries of art, 
Yet here are treasures 'which I value 
more. 
And which are always dearer to my 
heart. 
In rare confusion scattered round, on 
shelves 
And chairs, and filling all convenient 
nooks. 
Are the delights of one who fondly delves 
For learning in a glorious host of 
books. 
True friends are they, whose dear love 



never goes 



And, holding them, why should I wisli 
for more ? 
Since through their trusty channfls al- 
ways flows 
The storied wine which thrilled the 
gods of yore ; 
And, drinking deep, in enviable dreams 
1 walk with them beside their mystic 
streams. i 



THE SORROW OF LOVING AND LOS- 
ING. 

There is many a grief for our hearts to 
bear, 
As we drift o'er life's broad ocean. 
And we mutter a curse or breathe a 
prayer 
As we struggle with bitter emotion ; 
But the deepest sorrow that man may 

know. 
Which we all of us flee from, yet can not 
forego, 
Is the sorrow of loving and losing. 

You have had your trials, my friend, I 
know ; 
They have lined your brow with wrin- 
kles ; 
Yet still in your eyes, with a merry glow, 

A radiant love-light twinkles, 
For a true, fond heart has been your 

throne ; 
You never have dreamed of, never have 
known, 
The sorrow of loving and losing. 

You can not know how the cross has 
weighed 
So heavily on my slioulders ; 
Of the fond devotion, unrepaid, 

Of the fire which faintly smoulders ; 
Of hopes raised high but to be o'erthrown, 
Which leave in the heart the tiiought 
alone 
Of the sorrow of loving and losing. 

JOSEPH K. FORAK 

,857 . 

Joseph K. Foran was born September 
5, 1857, at Aylmer, Ontario. He studied 
at the College of Ottawa, under the Ob- 
late Fathers, and at Laval University, from 
which institution he took the degree of 
LL.B. in January, 1881. He was admitted 
to the profession of barrister for the pro- 
vince of Quebec, during the same month. 
He is now practicing law in his native 
town. Mr. Foran is a graceful writer, 
and has contributed to the Harp and 
other papers. 



136 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 


THE SIEGE OF QUEBEC. 


Scarce draw a breath, but rush to death !— 


13tU September, 1759. 
L 
Calm was the night ! On Levis' height 


Hark to the warriors cheering 1 


VI. 

As billows' shock against the rock- 


The haloed moon was gleaming ; 


As lightning's flash at even- 


In airy flight the signals bright 


As tempest loud, in misty shroud 


Along the sky were streaming. 


Across the space of heaven— 


In camp beside St. Charles' tide, 


As torrents roar from mountain hoar — 


Brave Montcalm's men are sleeping. 


As avalanche descending— 


The pickets tread— the stars o'erhead 


The sons of France, in battle's glance, 


From deepmost shades are peeping 1 

n. 

From Levis' shore the stealthy oar 


The British lines are rending I 


VIL 

As raountaiH hoar or craggy shore 


With silent stroke is plying ; 


"With ocean's spray is blending— 


Along the heights the beacon-lights 


As stately pine, the English line 


In fitful blaze are dying ! 


Before the blast is bending ! 


The arm^d band in silence land, 


They pause a space— advance a pace 


They stay a moment's breathing ; 


From rolling volumes under— 


The mountain's brow they're climbing 


" Fire ! Charge and fire ! " The words 


now, 


expire- 


Their flags with glories weaving. 


Loud peals the battle thunder ! 


in. 


vin. 


'Tis morning bright 1 O'er Levis' height 


The live-day long saw armies strong 


The gorgeous sun is beaming. 


For glory's crown contending ; 


Above the crag, the olden flag 


The smoky shrouds with heaven's clouds 


lis lily folds is streaming. 


In darksome maze are blending ! 


From dark repose the orb arose. 


The sabres clash -the muskets flash— 


His crimson pride displaying ; 


The war-horse neighs and prances- 


The breezes fann'd an army grand 


'Till close of day in deadly fray 


On Abr'haoi's plains arraying. 


The British host advances I 


IV. 


IX. 


An hour is o'er ! The cannon's roar 


The glowing sun his course has run. 


Has broke the soldier's slumber. 


The English hero lying 


The English host at duty's post 


Upon the field, beside his shield- 


Twelve thousand heroes number ! 


Immortal Wolfe is dying ! 


Down in the glen the Montcalm men 


In death's repose his eye did close ; 


Have heard the musket's rattle ; 


Hark to the warrior shouting I 


Each warning loud, each trumpet proud 


Exultant cry—" They fly ! They fly I " 


Proclaims the day of battle. 

V. 

In phalanx strong they rush along 


Oh, what an awful routing ! 


X. 

Cried Wolfe, " Who fly ?" The men reply , 


To join their fellows' danger ! 


" The French— vain their decision." 


Tiie hills resound with bugle sound 


His high brow bent— "Idle content !"— 


Of Frenchmen and of stranger. 


His spirit left its prison ! 


0!i, nation's fault ! without a halt 


And Montcalm, too, midst warriors true, 


The Montcalm men, appearing, 


From France— may God defend her I - 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



137 



His latest word— his hand on sword— 
" I see not this surrender ! " 

XL 

The FUur de lis no longer free 

Is fanned by breeze of heaven ; 
The British flae; above the crag 

Was planted in the even ! 
The day is done— the Autumn sun 

In fiery blaze is sinking ; 
Laurentine's brow is gorgeous now 

With hundred beauties linking ! 

XII. 
In lofty pride along the side 

Of Stadacona frowning, 
Your city grand— our native land— 

A raonumeut is crowning ! 
It tells sublime thro' waning time 

Of deeds of vanished glory, 
When heroes fought, the works they 
wrought 

With blades in crimson, gory I 

XIII. 

Oh, England's fame ! Ob, glorious name ! 

And one, that France most cherished, 
On marble bare are written there— 

Their names and how they perished I 
Its summit high against the sky. 

Like sentinel defending. 
Points from the sod to where, with God, 

Their spirits now are blending ! 

XIV. 

Sons of a land so great and grand, 

Bethink you of the story 
Now shedding bright its hving light 

On Stadacona hoary ! 
Think of the day when in the fray 

A nation's hopes were blighted ; 
And in the end these peop'es blend 

In firmest bonds united I 



ELIZABETH WAYLEN. 

1857 . 

Elizabeth Waylen (Ethel Tane) was 
born in London, England, in 1857. She 
has contributed to the Limny Aye, and 



other publications. Many of her poeraa 
are really exquisite. She now resides in 
Philadelphia. 



A CYNIC. 
I. 

And so your life has been a dreary story 
Of treachery against you, leal and true; 

And little of our nature's tender glory 
is yet revealed to you. 

II. 

You think that you are wise and I am 
dreaming 
The dream of youth— a& beautiful as 
vain — 
Tliat friendship is another name for 
scheming. 
And love is— love of gain. 

ni. 

My friend, not long ago my dull existence 
Passed slowly by within a city drear, 

I watched the endless roofs, the smoky 
distance, 
The sparrows, prating near. 

IV. 

At length a footstep mounted to my attic: 
One entered in and reached to me his 
hands, 

And now I go witli him — joy ecstatic I 
Across the meadow lands. 

V. 

The saucy robin trills his carol near us, 
The lark arises at our very feet. 

While speckled thrush and blackbird often 
cheer us 
With mellow notes and sweet. 

VI. 

And he — my guide— has promised me that 
yonder 
Are built the nests of doves and night- 
ingales, 
In secret woods where we alone shall 
wander, 
In more sequestered vales. 



138 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



VII. 

But you — you look for doves in city alleys, 
For niglitliiKales among tlie sparrow 
crew- 
Then marvel that the music of our val- 
leys) 
Is still unheard by you. 



A YOUNG POET. 

I saw the poets in a mighty hall, 
Each singing out of his o'erflowing 
heart; 
One sang to rich and poor, to great and 
small : 
One t) a group that stood with him 
apart ; 
One warbled lays to move a maiden's 
soul, 
Of truth, and trust, and love that will 
not fail ; 
While other bards sang of the cannon's 
roll, 
In tones that made their gentle listen- 
ers quail. 

But one there was — a youthful singer 
he— 
Who only gave sweet echoes of the rest. 
Who only reproduced the melody 
That had its birth-place in some older 
breast. 
And many scoffed and called him "mock- 
ing bird," 
While others harmed him more with 
lavish praise ; 
But when that voice (»f passion I had 
heard, 
And gazed my fill upon the glowing 
face, 
I paused in doubt and hope— for surely 
he. 
With ears so true for every singer's tone, 
Shall one day wake to Nature's harmony. 
And make her thrilling language all his 
own ; 
Rise in tlie ether on his own strong wings, 
Sing the star's music— not man's render- 
ings. 



JOHN ACTON. 

1S58 . 

John Acton was born in Philadelphia, 
July 25, 1858. and still resides in that 
city. He has written several very pretty 
poems. 



MIDSUMMER. 

Marguerite April and Ophelia May- 
April had jewels made of flawless 

rain. 
May laughed 'mid pansy wreaths to hide 
death pain- 
Are dead, and Earth mourns not in black 

or gray. 
June-Juliet watches her sun knight all 
day 
From her green pillared arbor in the 

grass. 
And birds and winds fly downward as 
they pass. 
To teach young hearts a song, strayed 

ships their way. 
Tlie corded dust of the sweet four- 
o'clocks 
In curdled leaves makes richest per- 
fume gifts 
For dew and night, for which the gar- 
dens yearn; 
The satin-fingered grass winds round the 

phlox. 
The jasmine sheaves thin honey in white 

drifts. 
And rosebuds all to perfect scent-curves 
turn. 

E. J. McPHELIM, 

1861 . 

E. J. McPhelim, a young Irish-Cana- 
dian, was born in Bouctouche, New 
Brunswick, in 1861. He passed seven 
years in St. Joseph's College, Memram 
cook, N. B., graduating in June, 1879. 
Mr. McPhelim has contributed prose arti- 
cles and sketches to various magazines 
and periodicals. He is at presont a re- 
porter on the Chicago Times, 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



189 



HER MAJESTY. 

Slie wears a royal golden crown, 
Our little, laughing, shy-faced queen; 

The clust'ring curls o'er eyes of brown 
Are bright as Summer starlight's sheen. 

She sways a sceptre o'er us all, 
And we obey each proud command; 

For we are held in slavery's thrall 
By that imperial, dimpled hand. 

Her robes of state are puie as snow, 
In every heart she finds a throne. 

In all the land she has no foe; 
The name of rebel is unknown. 

Her loyal subjects, low and high. 
Full many a costly tribute bring; 

The glories of her kingdom, I, 
Her humble poet laureate sing. 

Around my neck her soft arms twine. 
My song is smothered in her curls; 

Her sweet, fresh lips are pressed to mine. 
Oh, Baby— little queen of girls ! 



WILLIAM J. KELLY. 

1862 . 

William J.Kelly was born in Colches-ter, 
New London County, Conn. Since 1878,he 
has been pursuing his studies at the Col- 
lege of St. Laurent, uear Montreal. His 



home is at TaflvUIe, Conn, Mr, Kelly's 
poems show great delicacy of feeling, and 
a considerable degree of thought. 



CHILDHOOD. 

As murmur gently through the balmy air 
The breezy winds of sweet and fragrant 

May, 
They bear upon their willing wings a 
lay 
Which tells of joy, with neither grief nor 

care. 
Thus passes childhood, short and sweet 
and fair, 
With ne'er a care to mar life's pleasant 

way, 
And ne'er a hand its pleasures sweet to 
stay; 
And thus with joy 'tis wont its course to 

bear 
To manhood ranks. Oh ! would the jo. 
of men 
Were all as fair as those of childhood" 

days ! 
For sweeter far are they than all the 
bliss 
Thai's treasured deep in an Elysian glen. 
Where birds in happy notes sing forth 

their lays, 
And brooklets give to mossy banks their 
kiss. 



APPENDIX. 



We give, in this appendix, selections from authors whose work 
entitles them to recognition, yet who have not responded to calls for 
information concerning themselves. We trust that, in the near future, 
the defect which tlieir reticence has caused may be repaired. 

The Editor. 



APPEjSTDIX. 



MRS MAEY E. BLAKE. 

Mrs. Blake is the wife of a distinguished 
piiysician of- Boston. She was for years 
a valued contributor to the Pilot. Her 
poems show much thought, and are very 
sweet and graceful. 



TO A FRIEND ON HER MARRIAGE. 

Glad with the perfect light of sea and sky, 
And sweet June blossoms bending on 

their stalks, 
And roses tangled near fair garden 
walks. 
And tuneful wild birds singing as they 

fly- 
Glad too with each sweet promised hope 
that dwells 
Wltliiu the fruitful bosom of the year, 
So dawns the golden day on which we 
hear 
The liappy music of thy wedding bells ! 
O Friend ! whose steps so lightly turn 
aside 
To enter on the new and chosen way, 
IViay each glad type that Heaven hath 

strewn to-day. 
Of joy and love before the white robed 
bride. 
Bloom m the fuller sunshine of thy life, 
And crown with bliss the future of the 
wife. 



TILL TO-MORROW. 

Be kind, dear Love, and never say, "Good- 
bye !" 
But always when we're parting— "Till 
to-morrow;" 
80 shall ray lips forget to frame a sigh. 
And Hope smile fondly in the face of 

Sorrow I 

143 



For if. indeed, it be but little space 
Before our parted steps again are meet- 
ing, 
'Twill cheat tlie hours to haste their lag- 
ging pace. 
If memory lingers still on thought of 
greeting. 

Or, should our feet diverge through weary 
days 
And dreary nights, the changing sea- 
sons bringing, 
The flinty sharpness of our lonely ways 
Will somewhat smooth. While thus the 
heart is singing. 

And if— saddest chance !— God's pitying 
hands 
Should wide as life and death our paths 
dissever, 
What dearer thought could mend the 
broken strands. 
Than thus to wait, until we meet— for- 
ever ! 

So dearest Love, be kind,— say not "Good- 
bye," 
But ever when we're parting — "Till 
to-morrow;" 
So shall my lips forget to breathe a sigh. 
And Hope smile fondly in the face of 
Sorrow ! 

JOHN BOYLE. 

John Boyle is a native of Kings County, 
Ireland, and came to this country quite 
young. He is now principal of one of 
the public schools of New York City. 
He has written many lyrics and essays, 
chiefly for the Nation and other Irish 
journals, and a History of the Irish Civil 
War of 1(589-92, entitled "The Battle 
Fields of Ireland." He has also written 



144 



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largely for the pre8s of New York,but 
liis signature rarely appears in connection 
with his work. 



THE ROBIN REDBREAST. 

Wiien balmy eve and roseate dawn 

Announce the floral goddess near, 
And over swelling mead and lawn 

The wild flowers, one by one, appear; 
From privot copse or hawthorn bush 

The linnet pours her dulcet strain, 
And the wild solo of the thrush 

Leads captive all the warbling train, 
Then round our doors the redbreast pours 

Her ever plaintive minstrelsy; 
Soft, sweet, and low, as if to show 

How true a little friend should be. 

Touched by the Summer's fervid breath. 

The flowers, unfolding, woo the bees: 
While droop the feathered tribes beneath 

The arches of the forest trees; 
Then noonday silence reigns o'er all. 

The drooping leaves are hushed, antil 
Tlie rail rings out his martial call 

Defiant to the skylark's thrill, 
Then from her trance, witii eye askance, 

The redbreast lists their rivalry. 
And pours her note from swelling throat 

To show how true a friend should be. 

Brown, whistling Autumn tramps among 

The fruitful trees and golden fields. 
His jocund days are all a song. 

For rich the offering Ceres yields — 
While preens the finch her gorgeous coat 

Among the swaths of new-mown hay; 
The blackbird sounds his bugle note 

Secluded from the glare of day. 
But still before the cottage door 

The little redbreast we may see; 
Near, and more near her song we hear, 

To show how true a friend should be. 

The sparrows seek the sheltering eaves. 
For Winter's sigh is on the blast, 

And, with the quickly passing leaves. 
The birds of passage, too, have passed; 

When swoops the hawk, on treach'rous 
wing, 
Upon his weak unwary quest, 



With panting heart and trembling wing 
The robin seeks the gentlest breast. 

And there receives the crumb she gives, 
'Till Spring revisits lawn and lea, 

Witli looks of love still sings to prove 
How true a little friend can be. 

Tlirice blest the maid whose look and 
word 

Awake to tenderest sympathies 
The instinct of this lonely bird ! 

By such unerring signs as these 
Her name is placed among the good, 

The cherished fav'rite of the plain, 
She bears to stately womanhood 

The household virtues in her train. 
And then her cares the redbreast shares, 

A neighbor in the alder tree. 
And pours iiis lay, the livelong day, 

To sliow how true a friend should be. 



SAN SALVADOR— (OR, COLUMBUS). 
I. 

A flowery waste, through ages gray, 
In ocean's lap Columbia lay, 
Save where its erring peoples trod 
As exiles from the face of God. 
While slowly moved from place to 

place 
The footsteps of his chosen race. 
Ere shone on earth th' empyrean gem, 
The star that led to Bethlehem, 
Still kept an angel watch and ward 
O'er this dominion of the Lord. 

Adoremus dominum ! 

II. 

Upon the mountains of the land 
The angel took his patient stand. 
And through the ages watched and 

wept, 
As human passions surged or slept; 
For well he knew how human will 
And pride retard God's mercy still: 
Yet well foresaw that even these 
Must yield at length to his decrees; 
The destined hour might be afar, 
But mercy steps from star to star. 

Adoremus dominum! 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



145 



m. 

The rolling plains and woodlands green 
Put on or doffed their sylvan sheen, 
Round bounteous hills the rivers rolled, 
Through silvery beds besprent with 

gold, 
From peak to peak the thunder spoke, 
The mountains felt the lightning's stroke; 
From out the days' or nights' repose, 
The ever-startling war-whoop rose, — 
But still the angel all alone. 
Sent this refrain to heaven's throne— 

Adoremus doniinuml 

IV. 

'Twas Autumn; and the angel stood 

Looking afar o'er ocean's flood, 

While twilight died in purpling shades 

Along the tropic everglades: 

He saw the rainbow in the sky, 

And knew the destined hour was nigh,— 

There, as the wearied albatross. 

He saw afar the laboring Cross 

Arise or sink behind the wave. 

And sang to heaven this joyous stave; 

Adoremus dominum 1 

V. 

Amid the gloom, far out at sea, 

A frail bark rode, alternately 

Her graceful mast and, trembling spars 

Went circling through the clouds and 

stars. 
Now flung athwart, engulfed from sight, 
Now standing on the waves aright ; 
But gazing steadfast from her prow, 
A sea- worn man, of solemn brow, 
God's holy cross in his right hand,— 
'Twas thus Columbus sought the land. 

Adoremus dominum I 

VI. 

The wails of a desponding crew 
Pierce his heroic bosom through ; 
He points the way the sea-mew goes 
A sign the ocean wanderer knows. 
Still rings the wild rebellious cry ; 
He points the sea-drift floating by,— 
The land is near !— blessed sign ! 
He kneels unto the powers benign 1 
10 



Uplifts the cross upon his sword 
While rings from all to mercy's Lord, 

Adoremus dominum 1 

VII. 

The morning dawned— O heavenly light ! 
What isles — what wonders crown his 

sight ! 
Pledging both north and southward coasts 
An offering to the Lord of Hosts ! 
He plants his banner on the shore 
And names the pla e San Salvador, 
For there Salvation's reign began, 
And there the angel blessed the man ! 
Thence bore to heaven on spreading wings 
Those tidings to the King of Kings— 

Adoremus dominum ! 



REV. THOMAS N. BURKE, O. P. 

The many friends of the distinguished 
Dominican orator will gladly peruse the 
following spirited poem from his pen : 

THE IRISH DOMINICANS. 

This land of ours was famous once — no 

land was ever more— 
For saintliness so pure, so bright, as well 

as learned lore ; 
And strangers from a sunny clime were 

wafted to our shore. 
In bearing meek, and quaintest garb as 

ne'er was seen before ; 
And these were the Dominicans, six 

hundred years ago. 

They came with vigil and with fast, men 
versed in pray'r and read 

In all the sacred books, and soon through- 
out the land they spread : 

The people bless' d them as they passed ; 
low bow'd each tonsured head, 

So meek, 'twas like the saints, as they 
shall raise them from the dead. 
For holy were the Guzman's sons, five 
hundred years ago. 

And soon their learned voice was heard 
in pulpit and in chair, 

Whilst thro' the glorious Gothic aisle re- 
sounds their midnight pray'r ; 



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The orphan found beneath their roof a 

parent's tender care ; 
"Whilst boldly in iheir country's cause 

they raised their voice, for there 
Was Irish blood in Dominic's sons four 

hundred years ago. 

When heresy swept o'er the land like a 

destroying flood, 
And tyrants washed their reeking hands 

in martyrs' holy blood, 
St. Dominic's children then, like men, 

embraced the stake, and stood 
Before the burning pile as 'twere the 

Saviour's Holy Blood, 
And kiss'd tlieir habits as they bled, 

three hundred years ago. 

And whilst the Altars fed the flame, and 

Christ was mocked again. 
Their faithful voices still were heard in 

mountain's cave and glen. 
And thus was saved our Country's Faith, 

and thus the Lamb was slain, 
And ne'er was Ireland's title more the 

" Isle of Saints " than when 
The Preacher found a martyr's grave, 

three hundred years ago. 

And thus for fall three centuries they 
fought the holy fight, 

In city and on mountain side from Cash- 
el's sacred height ; 

True to their Country and their God, each 
man a burning light, 

They kept a nation's lifeblood warm and 
saved the Crozier's might. 
For miters shone on preachers' brows 
one hundred years ago. 

Now, men of Ireland, raise your thoughts 

to that bright realm above, 
Where Christian Faith and Hope are lost 

in all-absorbing Love, 
And blend the serpent's prudence with 

the sweetness of the dove, 
And faithful to our land and creed, in 

their bright footsteps move, 
Who fought and bled and conquered, all 

these centuries ago I 



MRS. MARY C. BURKE. 

Mrs. Burke is the wife of Dr. Martin 
N. Burke, of New York City. She 'has 
written many poems, some of which have 
become quite popular. 



LITTLE SHOES. 
They're very pretty little things, 

With bow and buckle bright, 
And fitted to dear little feet, 

So soft and smooth and white. 
And all the children eager rush 

To tell the joyous news 
That " Our baby has short clothes 

And pretty little shoes." 

Why is it that my mother heart 

Is full of anxious fears. 
And all unconsciously my eyes 

Glisten with blinding tears ? 
It is that, up to this, my babe 

Lay on a loving breast, 
To which he ever eager turned 

For nourisiiment and rest- 
But little shoes, ye bid me think 

Tiiat from this very day 
I sen4 another pilgrim forth 

Upon life's weary way. 
Into the world's sin and care. 

Its struggling and its strife. 
Until, like Job, his heart may wish 

It never had known life ! 

'Tis just two years ago I put 

On little Katie's feet 
Such shoes as these, with fond caress 

And kisses warm and sweet. 
They were such pretty little things — 

Aye, not a bit more stout- 
Yet she had joined the angel band 

Ere they were quite worn out ! 

Ah ! many a mother's bitter tears 

On little shoes are shed- 
Relics of household treasures gone — 

Idols amongst the dead. 
Whether this babe reach man's estate, 

Or soon his course be run, 
I only ask for grace to say 

Father, Thy will be done I 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



147 



BEV. RICHARD CASWALL. 

Rev. Richard Caswall, is a convert from 
Anglicanism, and a priest of the Oratory 
of St. Philip Neri. His poetry is distin- 
guished for its peaceful serenity, and 
merits for him a high place among 
poets. 

ON AN ANCIENT STONE QUARRY. 

Know, visitor, that from this spot ob- 
scure, 
So hid from human gaze. 
Whither scarce once a year, across the 
moor, 
A lonely shepherd strays. 

In olden time, far off beyond the seas, 

A vast cathedral rose. 
Whose fame extends to earth's extrem- 
ities, 

And still with ages grows. 

The stones that here in darkness would 
have lain, 

Thei-e, piled in glorious state 
Up to the skies, the fretted roof sustain, 

Majestically great ; 

Or, carved in many a mystical device 
And forms of saints on high. 

In glory ever new, bring Paradise 
Before the astonished eye. 

Such power hath God for His eternal 
ends 
To human genius given ; — 
Genius sublime ! by which the mind 
ascends 
In Him from eartii to heaven I 

So, at Ills will and bountiful decree, 

From low, obscurest things, 
In everlasting truth and harmony. 

Celestial beauty springs, 

E'en as at first, from the rude formless 
mass 

Of earth's chaotic frame. 
This fair creation, at his word of grace, 

In perfect order came. 



EDITH W. COOK. 

Miss Cook is a resident of Hoboken, 
N. J. She has written many beautiful 
poems, which have appeared chiefly in 
the Catholic Woi'ld. 



A MOUNTAIN FRIEND. 

I.— Our Bond. 

I know not why with you, far, somber 
height, 
I hold so subtle friendship ; why my 

heart 
Keeps it in one dear corner set apart. 
No rarer glory clothes it day and night 
Than find I otherwhere, yet, wheresoe'er, 
Amid all wanderings wide, by road or 

nest. 
Mine eyes upon those simple outlines 
rest, 
My heart cries out as unto true friend 

near. 
Nor holds that half-forbidding strength 
of form 
Memories more dear than give so deep 

a grace 
To other heights ; yet e'er on yon dark 
face. 
Sun-lighted be it, or half veiled in storm, 
I longing ga7e with thoughts no words 

define. 
And feel the dumb rock-heart low an- 
swering mine. 

II.— Noon. 

I climb the rugged slopes that sweep 
with strength 
And lines scarce broken, from the wil- 
derness wide, 
Beneath whose shadow frailest flowers 
abide. 
And sweetest waters trip their murmur- 
ing length. 
I stand upon the crown— the autumn air 
Blows shivering out of scarcely cloud- 
flecked skies. 
While warm the sunshine on the grey 
moss lies 



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And lights the crimson fires low leaves 

spread there. 
Beyond, hills mightier far are lifted stern 
With ancient forest where wild crags 

break through ; 
And, nobler still, far laid against the 
blue, 
Peaks, white with early snow, for heaven 

yearn — 
"Whose azure depths the quiet shadows 

wear — 
Crowning my mountain with their dis- 
tance fair. 

III.— Night. 
The strong uplifter of the wilderness, 
Holder of mighty silence, voiceful made 
With bird -song drifting from the 
spruce's shade, 
By quivering winds that murmur in dis- 
tress, 
Proud stands my mountain, clothed with 
loneliness 
That awesome grows when darkness 

veileth all 
And south wind shroudeth with a 
misty pall 
Of hurrying clouds that ever onward 

press. 
As something seeking that doth e'er 
elude. 
Flying like thing pursued that dare not 

rest. 
By some wild, haunting thought of 
fear possessed — 
Not drearness all, the cloud-swept soli- 
tude : — 
Through changing rifts the star-lit blue 

gives sign 
Of mountain nearness unto things divine. 

IV.— Dawn. 

Slow breaks the daily mystery of dawn- 
In far-ofif skies gleams faint the un- 
folding light, 
Anear the patient hills wait with the 
night, 
Whose shadow clings, nor hasteth to be 

gone. 
A passionate silence fiUeth all the earth- 



No wind-swept pines to solemn anthem 

stirred. 
No distant chirp from matin-keeping 
bird, 
Nor any pattering sound of leafy mirth. 
And seems that waiting silence to enfold 
All mystery of life, all doubt and fear, 
All patient trusting through the dark- 
ness here. 
All perfect promise that the heavens hold. 
Lo ! seems my mountain a high altar stair 
Whereon I rest, in thought half dream, 
half prayer. 

v.— On Fibe. 

Scarce dead the echo of our evening song 
That o'er the camp-fire's whirling blaze 

upsoared 
With wealth of hidden human sweet- 
ness stored — 
Life-thought that thronged the spoken 

words along; 
Scarce lost our lingering foot-steps on the 
moss 
When the slow embers, that we fancied 

slept, 
With purpose sure and step unfaltering 
crept 
The sheltering mountain's unsmirched 

brow across. 
Alas 1 for straining eyes that through long 
days 
Of strong breathed west wind saw the 

pale smoke drift 
Its threat'ning pennons in the distance 
lift. 
So setting discord in sweet notes of praise. 
Yet, hath the wounded mountain in each 

thought 
Won dearer love, for wrong, unwrithing 
wrought. 



JUNE. 



"June! dear June! Now God bo praised for 
June." —J. R. Lowell. 

"And yet In vain 
Poet, your verse: extol her as you will. 
One perfect rose her praises shall distil 
More than all song, though Sappho led the strain. 
Forbear, then, since, for any tribute fit, 
Her own rare lips alone can utter it." 

— Caroline A. Mason. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



149 



Each year she comes whom poets call 

" Dear June," 
With face e'er young, and voice of grief- 
less tune, 
Bright'ning the wayside with her roses' 

glow, 
Pilling the woods with song where hides 

below 
Not any note of pain to trace sad line 
On her smooth brow, crowned with youth 

divine, 
Whence eyes look forth wherein no 

shadow lies 
Of any thought less glad than Paradise- 
Soft, trustful eyes that look in ours to give 
Wealth of pure soul that but in joy doth 

live. 
Each year she comes as one that grows 

not old. 
Whose unstained robes unchanging heart 

enfold. 

Upon her daisy fields that stretch to meet 
Tne glitter of blue bays, her strong, white 

feet 
Fall with the melody of western wind 
That no dark thunder clouds lurk low be- 
hind; 
While from her broidered raiment's every 

fold. 
The wild grape'a subtle incense is un- 
rolled. 
Wide open are her hands that gifts may fall 
With grace of one that, loving, giveth all, 
Fears not that any cloudy day shall come 
When sun shall shine not, or sweet birds 

grow dumb. 
She never hath known loss; how shall 

her heart 
Fear with its generous wealth in love to 
part? 

And we that list each year, her winning 

speech — 
Music ripples on low, sandy beach — 
That gaze into the depth of her clear eyes. 
Trusting each thought that in their 

shadow lies; 
We, unto whom her roses' wayside blush 
Seems witchery strange aa that quick- 
passing flush 



That, as day dieth, raelteth into air. 

Titanic strength of rocks high heaped and 
bare; 

To whom snow peaks scarce fairer vision 
seem 

Than her blue seas where her wind- 
pressed vessels gleam; 

To whom a world of stars naught richer 
yields 

Than the white radiance of her daisy 
fields — 

We seek in our fond hearts some ne'er- 
heard phrase, 
Wherewith to speak our dear queen's 

fitting praise. 
And lips grow dumb though heart be 

eloquent, 
Our little treasure of love's speech soon 

spent. 
Our murmuring lips but echoes old repeat 
Of some true poet's clinging accents 

sweet 
Whose mouth June kissed ere he had 

sung her grace. 
Left on his page the print of her young 

face. 
Guided his pen with her pink finger tips, 
So perfecting the blessing of her lips. 

And sweet June mocks us not that incom- 
plete 

And unto outward seeming, all unmeet 

The stammering homage of her words' 
poor praise; 

Her thoughtful eyes in ours, soft smiling 
gaze. 

Perchance for our joy's sorrow might she 
weep, 

Did any thought of tears her dear eyes 
keep. 

She reads, "We love her," written in her 
heart. 

So, pushing her white daisies wide apart. 

She places on our lips a red June rose. 

That unto none but her each heart dis- 
close. 

What she hath waked, lest idle words do 
wrong 

To love that lieth deeper e'en than song. 



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THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



J. C. CURTIN. 

Mr. Cunin is a well-known Catholic 
writer. He was for some years editor of 
The Tablet. 



INMEMORIAM. 

'Twas in the springtide, when its glorious 

bourgeon 
Of buds and blossoms, flowered shrub 

and tree, 
When the green earth's heart heaved with 

quick'ning motion, 
She gave her soul, O loving God, to thee; 
In womanhood's bright bloom, ere slow 

decay 
Had touched her heart, from earth she 

passed away — 

Passed from this world with sin and sor- 
row rife, 
A world unfitted for a soul like hers— 

Pure in each sphere — as sister, mother 
wife— 
To mingle with God's holiest worship- 
pers. 

And round his throne to join the myriad 
throng 

Who praise his holy name in ceaseless 
song. 

For she was one whose heart was never 

chilled 
By the cold touch of earth or its false 

gloss; 
But hoping, trusting — one whose soul 

was filled 
With love of her Redeemer and the 

Cross, 
She strove alway to reach the destined 

goal, 
The haven— haven of every Christian soul. 

Sweet be her joys in Paradise ! We know 
She lives and loves within that blest 
abode. 
Oh! that our hearts could feel the holy 
glow 
That burned in hers to bear the weary 
load 



Of life, with all its cares and all its woes. 
Its passing pleasures and its fleeting 
shows. 

Bright be her dole ! Oh ! may her radiant 
spirit 
Beam down on us with soul absorbing 
love, 

And grant that we, her followers, may in- 
herit 
The love and glory she enjoys above, 

And that our hearts, by sin's dark tem- 
pests driven, 

May find surcease and dwell for aye in 
Heaven. 

MADELINE VINTON DAHL- 
GREN. 

Mrs. Dahlgren was born in Galilpolis, 
Ohio, and was the only daughter of the 
Hon. Samuel F. Vinton. She was mar- 
ried at an early age to D. C. Goddard, and 
after his death, to the late Admiral Dahl- 
gren. She has published several original 
works and translations. Her home is in 
Washington, D. C. 



THE ARGO NAVIS. 

[Suggested on seeing a silver boat filled with 
flowers and resting on a silver mirror at the 
president's mansion.] 

What argent boat, flower-laden afloat, 
With argive grace, o'er glassy face. 
Of mirror'd seas, doth sail at ease? 
The Argo Navis ! 

A Cazique brave, on silvery wave. 
Unfurls the sail, of bark so frail. 
From treach'rous shore, bold bends the 
oar 
Of Argo Navis ! 

This seeming grace, of burnish'd face, 
Is but a snare, a vitreous glare. 
Where quicksands deep do shipwrecks 
reap. 
Oh, Argo Navis 1 

Nor recks he then, with prescient ken, 
The potent spell that holds this shell— 



OP CATHOLIC POETS. 



151 



For taut and still, firm at his will, 
Is Argo Navis 1 

'Midst icebergs slides, and safely glides 
'Neath Southern skies, onward it flies. 
Its flag so fair, Union's stars bear, 
This Axgo Navis ! 

Who guides the bark, in time-^ so dark? 
A Higher Power, in supreme hour. 
At helm doth stand, and take command 
Of Argo Navis 1 



SYMBOLS. 
Hidden in web that fair Arachne weaves 
Cradled in dew-drops quivering on the 

leaves, 
They flash in sunshine, caught in diamond 

drops. 
Or play in breezes, o'er the mountain tops. 

As flutt'ring insects in fair flowrets lave, 
Or sparkling foam fast topples o'er the 

wave. 
Faintly the moonlight shadows liquid 

pearls, 
Or weird and wan, fantastic vapor curls. 

As fairy web mirrors the plan of youth. 
Exhaled like dew-drops are these plans. 

forsooth, 
Yet darting sunbeams waken hopes anew, 
That swift as wanton winds spring forth 

from view. 

The fleeting insects show the morn of life. 
And rushing waters symbolize its strife; 
'Neath scorching sua expires illusion 

hope. 
While all of Nature has an ideal scope. 

MRS. ANNA HANSON DORSEY. 

Mrs. Anna Hanson Dorsey has for many 
years been a valued contributor to the 
Catholic press of the country— notably to 
the Ave Maria, Irom tlie pages of which 
the following selection is taken. ' She has 
published a volume of poems which is 
now out of print. Her stories are 
read and admired wherever the English 
lougue is spoken. 



italian mariner's hymn to the 
blessed virgin. 

Chorus. 
The moon-lit billows lave our bark, 

As o'er their surges bright we ride ; 
Sancta Maria ! guide and mark 
Our glittering pathway o'er the tide. 
Ora pro nobis, 
And shine upon our life's wild sea. 
Then bid each cloud and tempest flee, 
That comes between our souls and thee. 

Single Voice. 
Rest, brothers, rest upon each oar, 

For the night breeze sighs 
And steals most sweetly from the shore ; 

Oh, we fall and rise 
As the blue billows round us curl. 
And balmy winds our sails unfurL 

Chorus. 
Begina Angeloi'um! smile 

Upon our labors and our toil. 
Save us from dreams of wreck the while 
, We draw our nets and count our spoil. 

Ora pro nobis. 
As thou in purest thoughts excel, 
Oh, guard our dark-eyed daughters well, 
Preserve them from the temptefd spell. 

Single Voice. 
Rest, brothers ! perils wild forget ; 

From the shore now steals 
The light notes of a castinet, 

And sweet laughter peals 
With dance of echoing feet along, 
Above the surges' whispering song. 

Chorus. 
Stella Matutina ! bless 

Our homes beneath the sunny vine ; 
Restore us to the loved caress 
Of those who kneel before thy shrine ; 
a pro nobis ! 
Preserve their beauty from decay, 
And gifts of gold and pearls we'll lay 
Upon thine altars when we pray. 

Single Voice. 
Hear, Mater Salvatoris, 
Hear our hymn to thee 1 



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Spread thy glittering pinions o'er us— 
Scatter rays of love before us. 
From eternity ! 

Chorus. 
Furl the wiiite sails— lay by each oar— 
We're floating in — the bright sands 
yield ! 
Oh, soon, our bark, we'll gently moor 
On flow'ry shores thy sparkling keel ! 
Orawo nobis, 
Sancta Maria ! hear us when 
TBe mists of death on us descend ; 
Shield from its gloom our souls. Amen, 

P. HENRY DOYLE. 

Mr. Doyle is a Philadelphian, and is 
now editor of the Saturday Evening 
Post, of that city. 



TWO VISIONS. 
A youth kneels at a woman's feet, and 

seems 
Lost in the sweetest of lore's golden 
dreams 
While gazing in her eyes ; 
Whate'er he sees his tongue may hardly 

tell. 
For hope and fear have wrought a double 
spell, 
Beneath which language dies. 

Yet had his earnest face the soul of 

speech, 
'Twere plain, tho' life were but a joyless 
reach. 
As barren deserts are- 
He were content to patient plod his way 
Unto the end, if guided by the ray 
Of such a longed-for star. 
* * * ♦ 

Through Summer sunshine and through 
Winter tears — 

The mist fall'n from the evening of long 
years, 
A man smiles at the boy ; 

The pride of age and knowledge — wis- 
dom's art — 



That flouts at all where hope plays well a 
part, 
Would mock his deep-rapt joy. 

But in his laugh— so worldly, sad and 

worn, 
A shadowed pain— a half regret is born 

That hope and love and truth— 
The hope that only dreams, and yet is 

blest. 
The soul's pure faith, its brightest and its 
best — 
So often die with youth. 

MRS. S. B. ELDER. 

Miss Susan Blanchard was born at an 
extensive Western frontier military post, 
where her father, then a captain in the 
United States army, afterwards Gen. A. 
G-. Blanchard, C. S. A., was stationed. 
While quite young she became the wife 
of Charles D. Elder, of New Orleans. She 
has written many occasional verses, some 
of which are distinguished for great po 
etic merit. She is the literary editor of 
the New Orleans Morning Star, whose 
literary department, under her manage- 
ment, is unexceptionable in its character. 



CLEOPATRA DYING. 
Glorious victim of my magic ! 

Ruined by my potent spell, 
From the world's imperial station 

I have dragged thee down to hell ! 
Fallen chieftain I unthroned monarch ! 

Lost through doting love for me. 
Fast on shades of night eternal 

Wings my soul its flight to thee I 

Caesar shall not grace his triumph 

With proud Egypt's captive queen ; 
Soothed to sleep by aspic kisses. 

Soon my heart on thine shall lean I 
Soon ray life, like loius blossoms. 

Swift sliall glide on Charon's stream ; 
Clasped once more in thy embraces, 

Love shall prove an endless dream ! 

Iras ! Charmian ! bind my tresses I 
Place the crown above my brow I 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



153 



Touch these hands and take these kisses ; 

Antony reproves not now ! 
Gods ! ray lips breathe poisoned vapors ! 

They have struck my Charraian dead ! 
Foohsh minion ! Durst precede me 

Where my spirit's lord has fled ? 

None shall meet his smile before me — 
None within his arms repose ! 

Be his heart's impassioned fires 
Quenched upon my bosom's snows ! 

None shall share his burning kisses 
Ere I haste me to his side ! 

Octavia's tears may prove her widowed- 
Cleopatra 's still his bride ! 

See ! my courage claims the title 1 

Close I press the aspic fangs ! 
Memories of his quickening touches 

Sweeten now these deathly pangs ! 
Honor, manhood, glory's teachings, — 

All he bartered for my smile ! 
Twined his heartstrings round ray fingers, 

Vibrant to a touch the while; 

Followed fast my silver rudder, 

Fled from Caesar's scornful eye. 
Heeded not his bleeding honor, 

Glad upon my breast to lie ! 
Then I 'snared him in my meshes, 

Bound him with my wily art, 
From the head of conquering legions, 

Snatched him captive to my heart. 

Wild his soul at my caresses ! 

Weak his sword at my command ! 
Rome, with fury, saw her mightiest. 

Bowed beneath a woman's hand. 

Noblest of the noble Romans ! 
Greatest of the Emperor's three ! 
Thou didst fling away a kingdom,— 
Egypt gives herself to thee I 

Sweet as balm; mosb soft and gentle. 

Drains the asp ray failing breath ! 
Antony ! ray Lord ! ray Lover ! 

Stretch thine arms to rae in death! 
Guide me through deepening shadows! 

Faint my heart, and weak my knee ! 
Glorious victim ! Ruined hero I 

Cleopatra dies for thee ! 



SUSAN L. EMERY. 

Miss Emery is a convert to the Catholic 
faith, and has contributed to various Cath- 
olic publications. She resides in Boston, 
Mass. 



ST. FRANCIS DE SALES. 

[The first Sisters of the Order of the Visita- 
tion, founded by St. Francis de Sales and St. 
Jane Frances de Chantal, were professed in 
June, 1611. The Devotion to the Sacred Heart 
was revealed in June, 1675, to Blessed Margaret 
Mary, of the same Order.] 

Sweet Saint of God, and well-beloved of 
men ! 
On earth, with steadfast feet, the ways 

of God 
By thee in peace and love and joy were 
trod; 
And peace and love and joy like holy rain 
Gqd gave through thee to one great soul 
in pain. 
Who long had tliirsted to be led aright 
To serve God perfectly by day and night. 
Thy work for her a blessed work hath 

been; 
It raised a whole new Order in God's 
Name. 
Let it show us, by worldly love con- 
gealed, 
How with God's love thy soul was all on 

flame. 
But lol another sign shows what thou art: 
God to a daughter of thy heart revealed 
The dear devotion to the Sacred 
Heart. 



JAMES JOSEPH GAHAN. 

Mr. Gahan is a Canadian writer of much 
promise. He is a frequent coutributor 
to the Pilot and other papers. 



CANADIAN VESPER-BELLS. 
It is vesper-hour, and a stillness deep 

Doth fall with the evening dew, 
And the sunset gleam, with its golden 
beam. 
Is tingeing the mountains blue; 



154 



THE nOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



And the mild moon's ray, o'er tlie dying 
day, 

On the silver cloudlet dwells— 
She Cometh amain with her starry train 

To list to the vesper-bells ! 

O'er the heathery slope, and the blue sea- 
bay, 

The harmony sweetly rings, 
To the flowery mead, and the forest fair, 

A mystical peace it brings; 
And the moss-grown oaks and the birches 
thrill. 

While the hquid measure tells 
The freshening balm, and the holy calm. 

Of Canada's vesper-bells ! 

They ring far away o'er the cavern-cliffs. 

And on tlie Atlantic fall, 
And fishermen bold, wliile they ply for 
gold. 
Await for the vesper-call ; 
O'er rapid and lake, through valley and 
brake— 
Tiirough all the Laurentian dells— 
Where the Sagueuay sweeps, and the Ot- 
tawa leaps 
Are heard our Canadian bells 1 

O'er Red River's pass, Saskatchewan's 
vale, 
They blend on the evening air, 
And Assimboine hears, with straining 
ears, 
The voice of their chimings rare; 
And sweeping along, with the torrent 
strong. 
Through the Cascades' granite cells, 
They die on the breast of Pacific blest— 
Our rhythmical vesper-bells I 



REV. B. D. HILL, (FATHER ED- 
MUND) C. P. 

Father Edmund is a native of Shrews- 
bury, England, and a graduate of the 
Cambridge University. He is a convert 
to the Catholic faith, and is now a member 
of the Congregation of the Passion. He 



has published two volumes of poems. 
His poetry glows with ardent piety, and 
his contributions to literature are always 
valuable. 



THE BETTER CHRISTMAS. 

" 'Tis not the feast that changes with the 
ever-changing times, 
But those that lightly vote away the 
glories of the past— 
The joys that dreamlike haunt me with 
the merry matin chimes 
I loved so in my boyhood, and shall 
dote on to the last. 

"There will still be much of laughter, 
and a measure of old cheer : 
The ivy wreaths, if scanty, aie as ver- 
dant as of yore, 
And still the same kind greeting for the 
universal ear ; 
But to me, for all their wishing, 'tis a 
' merry ' feast no more ! " 

I said ; and came an answer from the 
stars to which I sighed— 
Those stars which lit the vigil of the 
favored shepherd band— 
And t'was as if again the heavens opened 
deep and wide, 
And the carol of the angel choir new- 
flooded all the land. 

*' Good tidings still we bring to all who 
still have ears to hear — 
To all who love His coming— the elect 
that can not cease : 
And louder rings our anthem to these 
watchers, year by year, 
Its earnest of the perfect joy— the ever- 
lasting peace. 

"Art thou, then, of these watchers, if 
thou canst not read the sign ? 
The world was at its darkest when the 
blessed Day-Star shone ; 
Again 'tis blacker to Her beam ; and thou 
must needs repine 
And sicken so near sunrise, for the 
moonlight that is gone 1 " 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



155 



MRS. E. B. HOLLOWAY. 

Mrs. Holloway resides in Shelbyville, 
111., and ha8 written many stories and 
poems. 



MARY. 
There's a mound on the prairie where 

tlowers are brightest, 
The roses are deepest, the lilies the 

whitest, 
And the footstep of Winter falls ever the 
lightest— 
The spirit of Mary 
Still hallows that prairie. 

Oh, knew ye the maiden so lovely and 

true ? 
In the wilds of the West like a flower she 

grew ; 
All wild flowers are lovely, but earth 
never knew 
One other like Mary, 
Tlie Pride of the Prairie. 

In tlie depth of her spirit were treasures 

untold. 
And the dew-drops that fell on her locks' 

sunny fold 
Would sparkle hke diamonds embedded 
in gold — 
Such bright hair had Mary, 
The Pride of the Prairie. 

Of these rare spirit treasures a glance 

would you win, 
Through her soul's azure windows, with 

curtains so thin, 
You'd a glimpse of the fountain that 
sparkled within- 
Such bright eyes had Mary, 
Tlie Pride of the Prairie. 

She loved the wild flowers, she sought 

them at dawn. 
But dearest of all Mary loved her white 

fawn ; 
I would you had seen them one brilliant 
May morn— 
The fawn, flowers and Mary, 
At play on the prairie. 



On her brow bloomed a wreath of the 

roses of May, 
And flowers fell down in her pathway so 

gay. 
As following the fawn that was going 
astray. 
As light as a fairy 
She tripped o'er the prairie. 

He seeks for his kindred— the beautiful 

fawn— ■ 
O'er the emerald billows he 's gone— he 'a 



gone 



Nor heeds he the blast of the wild hunt- 
er's horn. 
Nor the sweet call of Mary 
That floats o'er the prairie. 

Now sees he the hunters ; as shaft from 

the bow. 
Swift, swift bounds the fawn— the dan- 
ger is o'er ; 
For, ere it can reach him, the arrow must 
go 
Through the warm heart of Mary, 
The Pride of the Prairie I 

On press the bold hunters, so mad in their 

glee I 
In the pure robes of Mary the white fawn 

they see. 
List ! a cry of deep anguish is heard o'er 
the lea : 
"Hold, hold! it is Mary, 
The Pride of the Prairie I " 

Too late came the warning ; ah ! never 

again 
Shall her voice of gladness resound o'er 

the plain ; 
The bowl at the fountain is broken in 
twain— 
The life blood of Mary 
Flows out on the prairie. 



There's a mound on the prairie where 

flowers are brightest, 
The roses are sweetest, the lilies are 

whitest, 



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THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



And the footstep of Winter falls ever the 
lightest — 
The spirit of Mary 
Still hallows that prairie. 

EDWARD HYDE. 

The following poem was published In 
the Ave Maria in 1880. It has attracted 
wide attention by its beauty and fresh- 
ness. 



THE TYPES OF GOD. 

I worked in my harvest field, 
And cradled the yellow grain. 

I thought of the plenteous yield, 
And counted the fold of gain. 

In my palms I rubbed an ear. 
The chaff from the wheat I blew, 

There were thirty kernels clear, 
Which from one kernel grew. 

I threw them down at my feet, 
And thought, as I saw them lie, 

Except a kernel of wheat 
Fall into the earth and die, 

It abideth ever alone. 

But this one fell and died. 
And these thirty, from one seed sown. 

Were raised and glorified. 

Then I said if a kernel of wheat 
A thought so great enfolds. 

Oh ! what is that thought complete, 
Which all creation holds ? 

In the acorn hides the tree 
That shall lift its giant form : 

In the dew-drop hides the sea 
With the tumult of its storm. 

Thus Nature hides, in germ, 
Her glory, power, and grace. 

Oh ! where is that lowly term, 
Which hides God's holy face ? 

Then weary, I sat me down, 
In the shade of a maple tree. 

Where the bare field I had sown, 
Was a waving wheaten sea. 



Like seraph tongues, I heard 
The leaves their anthem pour. 

And the wheaten sea was stirred 
With the sound of a far-off shore. 

There the scales fell from my eyes, 
And the veil fell from my heart, 

And I saw, with glad surprise. 
The harvest's counterpart. 

The Son would not dwell alone, 
Therefore He fell and died: 

Himself a seed was sown. 
Then raised and glorified. 

He is that lowly term. 
Which hides God's holy face, 

The Eucharistic germ 
Of glory, power and grace. 

The miracle is great. 

Whenever our daily food. 
Of water and flour of wheat. 

Is changed to flesh and blood. 

Faith finds no greater test. 

When the offered bread and wine. 
To flesh and blood of Christ 

Are changed by power divine. 

Thus bone of His bone are they. 
And flesh of the flesh of Christ, 

Who eat, from day to day, 
The Holy Eucharist. 

And as He rose, so they, 

After their crucial strife. 
Shall rise and soar away 

In the power of an endless life. 

I took my scythe again. 

But hesitating trod, 
For it almost gave me pain, 

To cleave the types of God. 

I saw, not a field of grain. 
With its swaying, bearded mist, 

But a harvest white with men 
Made white by the Eucharist. 

I heard, not the wind's low song 
In the leaves above my head. 

But the voice of an angel throng, 
And of countless risen dead. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



157 



ROBERT DWYER JOYCE, M. D. 

Dr. Joyce is a resident of Boston, and 
became widely known through his poem, 
"Deirdre," published in that city some 
years ago. His poems are full of thought, 
and it is safe to predict that they will 
enjoy longer life than is vouchsafed 
most poetry produced in the present day. 



ODE TO POVERTY. 

kind acquaintance ! thou who, proverbs 
say. 
Dost make strange fellows meet in taw- 
dry bed,— 
Comrade of wistful mouth, keen eyes of 
gray, 
Rough world-be wrinkled face and hoary 

head 
They say a gulf's between us that no 
tread 
Of thine can cross, though loving me so 
well, 

Yet still I long to clasp 
Thy hand with friendly grasp 
For, spite of their predictions, who can 
ijell ? 

What days we had, old comrade, you and I, 

Bright years ago when I was gay and 

young ; 

With you I roamed the ferny mountains 

high. 

Heard nature's voice in streams, in 

winds that sung. 
And wood-birds warbling with melo- 
dious tongue ; 
With you and other just as quaint com- 
peers 

What days and nights we had 
Well mixed of gay and sad, 
What revels and what laughter and what 
tears. 

Ah I many a lord of power and high re- 
nown. 
Driven from his State, at last shook 
hands with thee, 

And many a queen and mighty king, 
whose frown 



Would shake the world, have kept thy 

company : 
Thee they derided, while I, reverently 
Call on thee, brother, with affection kind, 
That if misfortune's pain 
Should come to me again, 
Thou'lt leave nje still the heaven of heart 
and mind ! 



AUTUMN LEAVES, FROM "DEIRDRE." 

One stilly day, 'neath Autunui's amber 

beam. 
She sat with Lavarcam beside the stream, 
And looked upon the leaves that strewed 

the ground 
In fading pomp and glory all around. 
And said, — 

"O Lavarcam, and shall I be 
Like these poor castaways of bush and 

tree? 
I've seen them bloom on many a branch 

and stem, 
And I have bloomed, and why not die like 

them!" 



With scarlet berries laughed the rowan 

tree. 
The nuts in clusters from the hazel hung. 
And high and wide the stately oak-tree 

flung 
Its fretted branches, rich with acorns 

brown : 
While from a leafless spray, a-nigh its 

crown, 
A brown thrush sang his song with dul- 
cet throat, 
Betimes awakening the glad red-breast's 

note. 
Responsive from its thorny brake, whereon 
The blackberries, like living garnets, 

shone. 

By the borders of the widening stream, 
The bog-flax drooped its head of silvery 

snow, 
And the last iris shone with golden glow, 
And yellow sunflowers closed their drowsy 
hds. 



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THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



Calm Autumn died, 

The last flowers withered in the treach- 
erous air, 

The little stream with mournful mur- 
murs rolled. 

And the trees doffed their robes of bronze 
and gold, 

And fading blue and green, and glowing 
red. 

And all the outside lands lay damp and 
dead. 

. . Thethickrain would pour and swell 

the rills 
To rivers, and the rivers into seas. 
Till at once would rise a southern breeze, 
Born 'mid the bowers of some more genial 

clime, 
And make a mimic Summer for a time! 



MRS. ANNE CHAMBERS 
KETCHUM. 

Mrs. Ketchum is a Southern lady who 
has for many years contributed to Har- 
per's and other magazines. She has pub- 
lished a volume of poems called "Lotos 
Flowers." 



AT PARTING. 

Farewell— shall it be farewell ? 
Farewell, said lightly when the careless 

part; 
Farewell, said coldly by the estranged in 
heart, 
And serving but to tell 
The empty dearth of cold Convention 's 
shell. 
Nay ! not farewell. 

Good-bye— shall it be good-bye ? 
Good-bye, low whispered amidst bliniing 

tears ; 
Good-bye, presaging sad, long parted 
years. 
Telling, with sob and sigh. 
Of change, or thwarted plan, or broken 
tie. 
Nay ! not good-bye ! 



Good-night— shall it be good-night ? 
Good-night, which means to-morrow we 

may meet ; 
Good-night ! I fain my foolish heart must 
cheat, 
Though morning's golden light 
Shine on a lone ship leagues beyond thy 
sight. 
Yet still, good-night ! 

Thou best-beloved, good-night ! 
Good-Night, best Night, with all thy fair- 
est dreams, 
Good-Night, best Night, with all thy star- 
riest beams. 
Watch by her pillow white 
And tell her all my love, thou gentlest 
Night ! 
Good-night, good-night I 



MRS. MARY E MANNIX. 

Mrs. Mannix was born in New York 
City, of Irish Catholic parents, and went 
with them to Cincinnati, where she now 
resides. She has for some years been a 
miscellaneous contributor to the press. 



A BEAUTIFUL LEGEND. 

Softly fell the touch of twilight on Judea's 

silent hills ; 
Slowly crept the peace of moonlight o'er 

Judea's trembling rilis. 

In the Temple's court conversing, seven 

elders sat apart ; 
Seven grand and hoary sages, wise of head 

and pure of heart. 

"What is rest ? " said Rabbi Judah, he of 

stern and steadfast gaze. 
"Answer, ye whose toils have burthened 

through the march of many days." 

"To have gained," said Rabbi Ezra, "de- 
cent wealth and goodly store, 

Without sin, by honest labor — nothing 
less ancf nothing more." 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



159 



"To have found," said Rabbi Joseph, 
meekness in his gentle eyes, 

"A foretaste of heaven's sweetness in 
home's blessed paradise." 

"To have wealth and power and glory, 
crowned and brightened by the pride 

Of uprising children's children," Rabbi 
Benjamin replied. 

" To have won the praise of nations, to 
have worn the crown of fame," 

Rabbi Solomon responded, loyal to his 
kingly name. 

"To sit throned, the lord of millions, first 

and noblest in the land," 
Answered haughty Rabbi Asher, youngest 

of the reverend band. 

" All in vain," said Rabbi Jarus, "if not 
faith and hope have traced 

In the soul Mosaic precepts, by sin's con- 
tact uneffaced." 

Then uprose wise Rabbi Judah, tallest, 

gravest of them all : 
'From the heights of fame and honor 

even valiant souls may fall ; 

•• Liive may fail us. Virtue's sapling grow 
a dry and thorny rod, 

It we bear not in our bosoms the unself- 
ish love of God." 

In the outer court sat playing a sad-feat- 
ured, fair-haired child ; 

His young eyes seemed wells of sorrow— 
they were godlike when he smiled. 

One by one he dropped the lilies, softly 
plucked with childish hand ; 

One by one he viewed the sages of that 
grave and hoary band. 

Step by step he neared them closer, till, 

encircled by the seven, 
Thus he spake, in tones untrembling, with 

a smile that seemed of Heaven : 

" Nay, nay, fathers ! Only he, within the 

measure of whose breast 
Dwells the human love with God-love, can 

have found life's truest rest ; 



" For where one is not, the other must 
grow stagnant at its spring. 

Changing good dQpds into phantoms— an 
unmeaning, soulless thing. 

'•Whoso holds this precept truly owns a 

jewel brighter far 
Than the joys of home and children— 

than wealth, fame and glory are ; 

" Fairer than old age thrice honored, far 

above tradition's law. 
Pure as any radiant vision ever ancient 

prophet saw. 

" Only he, within the measure— faith ap- 
portioned—of whose breast 

Throbs this brother-love with God-love, 
knows the depth of perfect rest." 

Wondering, gazed they at each other : 
" Praised be Israel evermore ; 

He has spoken words of wisdom no man 
ever spake before ! " 

Calmly passing from their presence to the 

fountain's rippling song. 
Stooped he to uplift the Hies strewn the 

scattered sprays among. 

Faintly stole the sounds of evening 
through the massive outer door ; 

Whitely lay the peace of moonlight on 
the Temple's marble floor. 

Where the elders lingered, silent since he 

spake, the Undefiled— 
Where the Wisdom of the ages sat amid 

the flowers a child ! 

THOMAS J. McGEOGHEGAN. 

Thomas J. McGeoghegan is a native of 
Dublin, and came to New York several 
years ago. He is at present the associate 
editor of the New £ork Tablet. 



KNEELING AT KNOCK. 

Kneeling at Knock amid visions of glory, 
Humbled and penitent, bowing the 
head, 



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THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



The young and athletic, the aged and 

hoary, 
Absorbed in those visions so pleasingly 

dread ! 
In no gorgeous and turreted temple, sur- 

roupded 
With pomp and display, doth Our Lady 

appear ; 
Not where the wealth of the worldling 

abounded, 
But away in a wilderness cheerless and 

drear. 

Not above Gothic and gold-girded altars 
Doth Bethlehem's star throb and trem- 
ble again ! 
Its light may grow dim, altho' cymbals 
and psalters 
Should swell with the grandest, sub- 
limest refrain ; 
Not there, oh ! not there, but in mountain 
recesses. 
Whither Cromwell had chased our loved 
sires of old. 
There, there by a poor lowly shrine Mary 
kisses 
The children of Connaught, who cling 
to the fold ! 

Ay, they lovingly cl^ung to the fold through 
the ages, 
Defying the blood-embrued sword of 
the foe. 
And unflinchingly still, while the black 
storm rages, 
They stand by the cross, tho' environ'd 
with woe ; 
And therefore, our sinless, immaculate 
Mother 
Thus deigns to come down from the 
realms above. 
With angels celestial, who smile on each 
other 
Beholding dear Erin so leal in her love; 

So leal in her love, even angels must love 
her, 
Knowing well how her children with- 
stood the rude shock 

When a tempest of sorrow swept fiercely 
above her— 



Now those children are comforted kneel- 
ing at Knock I 
Kneeling at Knock, while a nimbus of 
splendor. 

Brighter than calciums, piercing the 
tomb. 
Blazes above them, the young and the 
tender. 

The blind and the crippled enveloped 
in gloom I 

There our dear Lord is the blessed ex- 
horter. 
Inspiring the faithful with love and 
with awe, 
There hundreds are healed by the mar- 
velous mortar. 
Even skeptics proclaiming the wonders 
they saw ! 
The glacier gleaming away on the ocean. 

The hurricane dismally howling afar, 
Vesuvius quivering with turbid emotion, 
The storm-king riding the lightnings of 
war. 

The glare of the battle so dread and ap- 
palling, 
The blaze of the musketry flashing on 
high. 
The blast of the loud, thrilling trumpet 
recalling 
The wavering troops when they falter 
or fly — 
Oh ! Mars, with his fiery banner unfurled, 
Looks grand and sublime as the desert's 
sirroc ; 
But subUmer than all in this star-girdled 
world 
Is the faith of the worshipers kneel- 
ing at Knock ! 

JAMES McNAMARA. 

James McNamara resides at Dexter, 
Mich., and is a contributor to several Cath- 
olic journals. 



SANCTA MARIA. 

Mother Immaculate, we pray thee hear us! 
may our humble prayeis to thee arise! 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



161 



We pray, sweet Mother, that thou'lt be 
near us 

In death's dark hour— receive our part- 
ing sighs. 

Then lift in silent prayer our hearts to 
thee. 

As we are wafted to eternity. 

Oh, Queen of Heaven, thy sorrows should 

have tauglit us 
, To bear our cares with fortitude and 

love. 
By Precious Blood on Calvai'y He bought 
us, 
Christ, the Bedeemer, God of peace and 

love. 
Sancta Maria, star forever bright, 
Guard us and watch o'er us by day and 
night. 

KATHLEEN T. McPHELIM. 

Miss McPhelim is a young Chicago 
writer, whose work is full of promise. 



TWO WOMEN. 

Grandma sits in her great arm-chair, 
Balmily sweet is the soft Spring air. 

Through the latticed, lilac-shadowed pane 
She looks to the orchard beyond the lane. 

And she catches the gleam of a woman's 

dress 
As it flutters about in the wind's caress. 

" That child is glad as the day is long, 
Her lover is coming, her life's a song." 

Grandma sternly shakes her head, 
" Love is folly— that's all !" she said. 

Up from the orchard's flow'ry bloom, 
Floats perfume faint to the darkening 
room 

Where grandma dreams, till a tender 

grace 
And a softer light comes into her face. 

Once again she is young and fair. 
Twining red roses in her hair. 
11 



Again, as blithe as the lark above, 
She is only a girl and a girl in love. 

The last faint glimmers of daylight die, 
Stars tremble out in the purple sky- 
E'er Dora flits up the meadow path, 
Sadly afraid of Grandma's wrath. 

With rose-red cheeks and flying hair. 
She nestles down by the old arm-chair; 

"Grandma— Dick says,- may we— may I," 
The falt'ring lips grow strangely shy. 

But Grandma presses one little hand, 
"Yes, my dearie, I understand ! " 

She gently twists a shining curl, 
"Ah, me, the philosophy of a girl I 

" Take the world's treasures, its noblest, 

best, 
And love will outweigh all the rest. 

" He may have you, my darling ; " not all 

in vain, 
Did Grandma dream she was young again. 

And through the casement the moonlight 

cold, 
Streams on two heads, — one gray, one 

gold! 

REV. CHARLES MEEHAN. 

The Rev. Charles Meehan is a gifted 
Irish priest, who has contributed some 
valuable works to the literature of his 
country, notably, his "Confederation of 
Kilkenny," and "History of the Geral- 
dines." He has also written some fine 
poems. 



BOYHOOD'S YEARS. 

Ah I why should I recall them — the gay, 

the joyous years, 
Ere hope was cross'd or pleasure dimm'd 

by sorrow and by tears ? 
Or why should memory love to trace 

youth's glad and sunlit way. 
When those who made its charms so sweet 

are gather'd to decay 1 



162 



THE IIOUSEHOLP LIBRARY 



The Summer's sun shall come again to 

brighten hill and bower — 
The teeming earth its fragrance bring 

beneath the balmy shower — 
But all in vain will memory strive, in vain 

we shed our tears — 
They're gone away and can't return — the 

friends of boyhood's years ! 

Ah ! why then wake my sorrow, and bid 

me now count o'er 
The vanish'd friends so dearly prized — the 

days to come no more — 
The happy days of infancy, when no guile 

our bosoms knew, 
Nor reck'd we of the pleasures that with 

each moment flew. 
'Tis all in vain to weep for them— the 

past a dream appears : 
And where are they— the loved, the young, 

the friends of boyhood's years ? 

Go seek them in the cold churchyard— 

they long have stol'n to rest; 
But do not weep, for their young cheeks 

by woe were ne'er oppress'd; 
Life's sun for them in splendor set — no 

cloud came o'er the ray 
That lit them from this gloomy world 

upon their joyous way. 
No tears about their graves be shed— but 

sweetest flowers be flung. 
The fittest offering thou canst make to 

hearts that perish young— 
To hearts this world has never torn with 

racking hopes and fears; 
For bless'd are they who pass away in 

boyhood's happy years ! 

MARION MUIR. 

Marion Muir is a native of Chicago, and 
a daughter of the Hon. W. T. Muir, of 
Colorado, who crossed the plains in i860, 
held ofliee under Miner's and United 
States laws, and forms a prominent figure 
in the history of the Stale. Miss Muir re- 
sides in Morrison, Col. She has written 
much for the periodical press. 



THE BURIAL OF CUSTER. 
Beneath the mountain's scowling shndp. 

With neither coffin, shroud nor pali, 
Tiie leader and his men they laid 

In the rest that levels alL 

No funeral pomp, no tolling bell. 
The warrior's desert burial knew. 

Yet, surely, through that echoing dell 
The wind his requiem blew. 

No martial music marked the hour 
When they parted— the irue and brave — 

But comrades gave a silent shower— 
Their tears— to the lonely grave. 

Far, far from home the Western wild 
Held the hero and his fellows. 

With mountain sods above them piled 
And mountain rocks for pillows. 

While ever through that fatal vale 
The wild dove's mourning note shall 
swell. 

And solemn pine trees grieve the gale 
For the time when Custer fell. 

Till sadder flows the tireless tide 
Of those dark hills sweeping river, 

And frontier homes for which he died. 
Will shield his name forever. 

REV. MICHAEL MULLEN, D.D. 

Dr. Mullen was a native of Ireland, and 
wrote much and learnedly on theological 
topics. He died in Chicago, some years 
ago. 



THE SONG OF SATURNUS. 

A hymn to Saturnus, a grateful hymn. 
With goblets festooned to the bead- 
crowned brim. 

On his festival we sing: 
Who once in the year 
Doth freedom and cheer 
To slave and to master bring. 

He taught unto men how to till the hard 

soil, 
To plant the green grape and to draw the 

fat oil 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



163 



Which flows in the olive's heart, 
To prune the vine 
And to tap the mine, 

And every useful art. 

He breathed on the earth ; and his breath 

is the spring 
Whicli flowers and fruits on its bosom 
doth fling. 

And sweetens the Summer breeze 
As it freshly blows 
Where the water flows 
Through the roots of the leaf-clad 
trees. 

He breathed on the sea; and the ripples 

came 
Like smiles o'er its face, and its amorous 
frame 

Kissed with its cooling hp 
The shore in the hours 
When the sky sends its showers 
For the thirsty earth to sip. 

He breathed on the air; ami its brow 

grew white 
With rays scarce concealed by the veil of 
night; 

And the sun from its blue looked 
down 
With a smile so bland 
As to free the land 
From the chill of his Winter 
frown. 

He breathed on the springs; and the 

streams rushed out 
From their mother's lap with a mirthful 
shout: 

"Oh ! come to the fields," they 
sang, 
" For the parched meads 
Need our limpid beads." 
And they laughed as they onward 
sprang. 

Then a hymn to Saturnus, a grateful 
hymn. 

With goblets festooned to the wine- 
crowned brim, 



On his festival we sing: 
Who once in the year 
Doth freedom and cheer 

To slave and to master bring 1 



J. W. S. NORRIS. 

Joseph W. S. Norris resides in Bay City, 
Mich. He is not a prolific writer, but his 
poems are highly finished, and show 
much depth of thought and grace of ex- 
pression. 



THE ANSWERED "AVE." 
The dear Saint Bernard ere eve's shadows 
fell 
Throughout the cloister's fair and fra- 
grant shade, 
Paused as the golden sunbeams slowly 
fade, 
List'ning to the holy Angelus bell, 
Which thro' each happy hermit's peaceful 
cell 
Poured its full note, re-echoed, then de- 
cayed. 
'Neath Mary's image ling'ring he de- 
layed 
To breathe his loving "Ave :" Legend tell 
Prom out the pure white marble lips 

there came 
A voice of wondrous sweetness, — thrill- 
ing power, — 
That Bernard's greeting answered gra- 
ciously : 
Mary ! kindle in my heart Love's 

. flame 
That I may greet thee thro' life's every 
hour 
Hopeful of welcome sweet, at death, 
from thee. 



THE GARNERED FLOWER. 

A violet, hid from rain and worldly eyes. 
That dews of heav'n had cherished as 

most dear. 
Soft- bloomed 'mid fragrance, feeling 
naught of fear, 
In beauty beaming, bright as heaven's 
skies. 



fmp^svunRMn* 



164 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



For Him who deems the humble lieart 
full wise. 
"0, pure, pale violet, thou that oft didst 

cheer 
Thy loved companions in God's garden 
here, 
Lift upward thy pure heart in burning 

sighs ! " 
The sighs were spent. Ere yet the wind's 
low wail 
Swept mourning o'er the Summer's 
peaceful dead, 
The Master came and raised the mystic 
vail 
That sorrow had placed o'er the meek- 
bowed head, 
And sweetly whispered, "Come." Tlie 
Autumn gale 
Passed as a gentle spirit heavenward 
fled. 

INVOCATION. 
Blow from the South, ye balmy winds of 
May, 
Breathe all the freshness of the sweet 

Spring-time, 
While with fair garlands at Our Lady's 
shrine 
We cast cur hopes on this the blithe May- 
day : 
Pour forth thy love-song, bhdling, clear 
and gay ; 
Fragrance and song in God's own bright 

sunshine. 
Harmonious mingle. Memory's magic 
chime 
Wakes and resounds and echoing dies 
away. 
Madonna, Queen and Mother I sweeter 

strains 
Than thy inspiring never hath been 
sung— 
Thou art the poet's purest, brightest 
dream. 
Fairest! ah break the captive's cruel 
chains. 
Sweet are life's charms, yet sweeter far 
among 
Thy court to see thy glorious beauty 
beam. 



O. D. O'CALLAGHAN. 

Mr. O'Caliaghan is a frequent contrib- 
utor to New York journals. His " River 
of Time " is a fine poem, and has become 
very popular. 



THE RIVER OF TIME. 

River of Time ! the Jong ago thou wert 

but a rippling rill. 
And the dulcet rhyme of thy crystal flow 

was sweet as wind-harp's trill ; 
That song of joy like a lullaby on the ah: 

rose soft and low. 
As thy ripples sped from their fountain- 
head and flashed in the morning 

glow; 
While Earth's fair queen, in radiant sheen, 

flower-crowned by angel hands, 
Thy beauteous grace of her mirror'd face 

oft scann'd in thy golden sands ; 
And the dreamy moon, in night's mystic 

noon, when her full, round orb shone 

bright. 
Gazed down with pride on thy silvery tide, 

pale shimmering in her light. 
While the primal stars in their gilded 

cars rolled on through the azure 

hight— 
Fair, glittering gems, bright diadems high 

set on the brow of Night. 

River of Time ! thy stream has swelled 
thro' the centuried lapse of years — 

Has grown and swelled since of old it 
welled from its fount 'mid the starry 
spheres, 

Till now, broad and deep, with majestic 
sweep, like the roll of an inland sea. 

That stream, erst a rill, turns God's 
mighty mill on its course to eternity ! 

Oh, methinks I hear, rising high and clear 
on the ghostly midnight wind, 

The surge and the roar of thy waves ever- 
more and the rush of the flood be- 
hind. 

And the shrieks of the lost on thy bosom 
tost, like wrecks on the ocean waves. 

Drifting out to sea, River, with thee, far 
away from the laud of graves I 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



165 



River of Time 1 from the days of yore 

flowing on to the billowy sea, 
Bring us back once more from the silent 

shore the friends who have flown 

with thee, 
The myriad host of the loved and lost— 

the hearts that were fond— ah, me !— 
The beauty and bloom in the grave's dark 

womb— the spirits tiiat wander free 
From sin's dark slime in that wondrous 

clime— bright land of the ransomed 

souls, 
Where Death's cold shadow never falls, 

nor death-bell sadly tolls. 
Ah 1 in vain we crave, for thy ebbless 

wave, when it passeth the grave's 

dark bourne, 
With its freight of souls, as it seaward 

rolls, never can or will return ! 

River of Time ! flowing solemnly on, 

with the wrecks of our hopes and 

dreams— 
On, evermore on, to the great Unknown, 

where the rapturing vision gleams, 
And the white souls float in space, as the 

mote on Summer's irradiant beams — 
Oh ! swollen thy flood with the priceless 

blood which ever and aye doth well 
From human souls slain on Life's battle- 
plain by the ambushed hosts of 

hell ; 
Sin's Juggernaut rolls over prostrate souls 

thick strewn on the field of strife. 
While thy mystic tide with their blood is 

dyed— red blood from the battle of 

life I 

River of Time ! in the dim, dark past, 
full many and many a year, 

Thou'st left thy fount on that sacred 
mount, long lost to both "sage" and 
" seer ; " 

No human eye, as the years sped by, has 
ever beheld, I ween , 

That mystic mount, or that crystal fount, 
all bright in its virgin sheen. 

S'nce the first twain fell, 'neath the tempt- 
er's spell, amid Eden's flowery bow- 
ers, 



When Earth was young, ere yetupsprung 

the thorns among the flowers ; 
When thy limpid stream in the morning 

gleam reflected the Heavenly towers. 
And Paradise rang with the silvery clang 

of the harps of seraphic powers ; 
For Earth at its birth, in its child-like 

mirth, flower-gemmed and green and 

fair. 
Careering through space, in emulous race 

with the stars and the spirits of air, 
Was nigher, I ween, to the angelic scene, 

than this Earth of ours to-day. 
With its deep, dark crime, oh, River of 

Time— in sorrow and sin grown grayl 



FRANK O'RYAN. 

Frank O'Ryan is employed as a special 
teacher by the Board of Education of 
New York City, He was born at Carri- 
galine, L'eland, where he studied. He 
obtained a classical education at Middle- 
ton College. Coming to America, he was 
employed by the present bishop of Roch- 
ester, to teach Latin at Seton Hall College. 
He contributes frequently to the periodi- 
cal press. 



HEARING THE CITY BY NIGHT. 
[Composed during a railroad journey.] 
Daylight was dying, and dimness was 
creeping ; 
Landscape and life were despoiled of 
their charm ; 
Swift on our straight iron path we were 
sweeping, 
Anxious and mute 'mid the solemn 
alarm ; 
Awful the shadows that round us were 

massing ! 
Huge and misshapen the things that were 
passing 
Farther, still farther from life and from 
light ! 
Thus we went fearing, and thus went 
careering. 
And so we went nearing the city by 
night ! 



166 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



Wayfarers, strangers, each other unknow- 
ing- 
Still more unknown was the goal that 
we sought ; 
Morn found us reckless of where we were 
going^ 
Night, on a sudden, brought gloom to 
our thought. 
Ah, this strange city ! how much we did 

tear it ! 
No one had seen it, or ever been near 
it— 
What did it keep for us, pain or deUght ? 
Thus we went fearing, aud thus went 
careering. 
And so we went nearing the city by 
night. 

Terrible tales has been told us about it. 
Can we be certain we there shall find 
rest? 
Are we so near it ? Ah, would we could 
doubt it ! 
Could we fly back from it, that would 
be best. 
One blessed hope then indeed hovered 

o'er us 
Of seeing the friends that had gone there 
before us ; 
But still with uncertainty blended 
affright 
As ihus we went fearing, and thus went 
careering. 
And so we went nearing the city by 
night. 

Stars glimmered out, but our care was 
unceasing ; 
Stars can be baleful no less than be- 
nign. 
Cavernous darkness and phantoms in- 
creasing— 
These were the objects our eyes could 
divine ; 
Shadows of vastness that ever kept loom- 
ing. 
And valleys of blackness that roared at 
our coming— 
Where was the wonder our souls were 
affright ? 



As thus we went fearing, and thus went 
careering, 
And 80 we went nearing the city by 
night ! 

Ah — but I dare not go on to the ending ! 
Language nor fancy can match with 
its tone 
The depth of the crisis sublime and tran- 
scending— 
The crisis when man goes to meet the 
unknown ! 
Whether these things are all true evi- 
dences. 
Or paris of a dream tiiat still hangs o'er 
my senses. 
Often I shudder and think with affright 
That ever there's somebody, somebody 
fearing 
And someftorf.v nearing the city by night. 

VERY REV. JOHN A. ROCH- 
FORD, O. P. 

The Rev. Father Rochford is a native 
of Virginia, and early in life entered the 
Order of St. Dominic, of which he is one 
of the most distinguislied members in 
this country. He has been president of 
St. Josepii's College, Perry County, 0., 
and also Provincial of his order. He is 
now pastor of St. Dominic's Church, 
Washington, D. C. 



SURSUM CORDA. 

[Written to assuage a poignant sorrow afflict- 
ing tlie heart of a friend who had lost a sister 
by death.] 

You ask me, friend, in mourning tears, 
To write the mind of aged seers, 
And tell, if there is after years, 
A Sursum Corda. 

Yes I see it on the Cliristian's grave ! 
'Tis echoed from the surging wave ! 
'Tis heard whilst angry tempests rave. 
The Sursum Corda. 

Whilst storms brood on the mountain's 

peak. 
And shake the gorge's snow-lit cheek, 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



167 



The wild winds to the faithful shriek 
The Sursum Corda. 

What if thy sky be dark to-day, 
Aftd sadness have no joyful ray, 
To-morrow's sun will soon portray 
The Sursura Corda. 

What though life's voyage stormy be. 
And perilled be tliy sanctity, 
If God points out beyond the sea 
Sursum Corda ? 

The mother sees her infant die, 
And weeps and prays imploringly. 
Until she sees revealed on high 
The Sursum Corda. 

Yes, martyrs, too, when rack'd with pain, 
And tortur'd by the tyrant's chain, 
Have triumph'd in tiie sweet refrain of 
Sursum Corda. 

E'en though thy sister calmly sleep 
In death, why shouldst thou weep ? 
God's angels o'er her slumbers keep 
The Sursum Corda 

There is no grief, nor loss of love, 
That is not gaug'd by God's sweet Dove, 
Who brings to earth from heaven above 
The Sursum Corda. 

Then sow not with those doleful tears 
Thy heart with dismal hopes and fears. 
For thou Shalt know, in after years, 
The Sursum Corda. 

And so, when fifty winters hoar 
Have brought thee to the sunset shore, 
Oil I niayst thou hear forever more 
The Sursum Corda, 



REV. MATTHEW RUSSELL, S.J. 

The Rev. Matthew Russell, S.J., is lo- 
cated in Dublin, Ireland, at the church of 
St. Francis Xavier. He is also editor of 
the excellent Irish Montlily. Father 
Riissel has published several volumes of 
verse, and is a mosL industrious and 
popular writer. 



DIO AMORE. 
From the Italian of Silvio Pellico. 

I love, and 'gainst my heart has throbbed 

the Heart 
Of my Beloved; and His name — my 

tongue 
Dares scarce to name Him. But, God ! 

'tis God, 
God who in glory radiant reigns in 

Heaven, 
Yet centers His delight in wretched man. 
In this dark vale a wanderer. Amazed, 
The Seraphim behold the King descend. 
Disguised, to this heir of crimes and 

woes. 
And heal with His own hands the man- 
gled worm, 
And tell to all the world His joy. His 

joy, 
If by that worm he be, perchance, be- 
loved. 
O'er gulfs profound I saw Him move 

toward me. 
And tenderly, "Ah, why so long," He 

cried, 
"From My embrace thou hidest ?" Near 

and yet 
More near He came, and bright and yet 

more bright 
Out flashed the luster of His eyes. I 

caught 
The flame, and in that flame shall burn 

forever. 
I love, and 'gainst my heart has throbbed 

the Heart 
Of My Beloved; and His name— yes, yes, 
Before the universe I cry, the Lord ! 
I saw, I knew !— I love Him, I am loved ! 



VENI, JESU. 
A Prayer P.h;fore Communion. 

Come, Lord, my God, my All 1 
I have heard Thy loving call; 
Thou hast drawn me by Thy charms, 
Thou hast raised me in Thine arms. 
Draw me closer still, I pray, 
Veni, Jesu Domine, 

Venil vent/ 



168 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



Come, oh come, my Jesua come, 
Make this yearning heart Thy home. 
Come, but ere Thou come, prepare 
For Thyself a dwelling there. 
Come! no longer. Lord, delay, 
Veni, Jesu Doinine, 

Veni! veni/ 

Why is not my heart on fire 

With an angel's pure desire ? 

He whose smiles makes angels blessed 

Conies within my heart to rest; 

Soon, too soon ! Make straight His way, 

Veni, Jesu Domine, 

Veni! veni I 

Low, He comes, the Savior ! He 
From his glad eternity 
Looked with pity on our woe. 
Saying, Ecce venio. 
Pity still his heart doth sway — 
Veni, Jesu Domine, 

Veni J veni! 

Human heart can never know 
All the love Thou liere dost show; 
Angel's voice could never tell 
What the souls that love Thee well 
Taste, each sweet Communiou day. 
Veni, Jesu Domine, 

Veni J veni/ 

But CTA e'en Thy heart endure. 
One so selfish, mean, impure — 
So ungrateful. Lord, to Thee 
Who hast shed Thy blood for me ? 
How can I dare thus to say, 
Veni, Jesu Domine, 

Veni/ veni/ 

Leave me. Lord, depart, depart I 
Come not near so vile a heart. 
Nay, forgive this foolish cry. 
For without Thee, Lord, I die. 
Pity me, turn not away, 
Veni, Jesu Domine, 

Veni/ veni/ 

Come with every needed grace; 
Make my heart a holy place, 
Rich in faith and prayer and love. 
Pure as happy saints above. 



Cleanse all trace of sin away, 
Veni, Jesu Dom'ne, 

Veni! veni/ 

Veni ! Come, my Jesus, see 
How my heart doth yearn for Thee. 
Come, and place Thy heart as seal 
On whate'er I do or feel. 
Come to me, and with me stay. 
Mane tnecum, Domine, 
Veni/ veni/ 



MICHAEL SCANLAN". 



SISTER STELLA.* 
The Angel of the Hospital Ward. 

As from some roaring ocean, lo, the city 
Cast up its wrecks forever at her feet. 
Where, like some angels clothed in power 
and pity. 
She waits, where life and death in 
mercy meet. 
To heal the hearts crushed in each wild 
disaster 
Beneath the unpitying feet in soulless 
marts. 
Telling, the while, how Christ, her Lord 
and Master, 
Knows how the world will break its 
finest hearts; 
Until they marvel at His love alone, 
And thinking on His grief forget 
their own. 

Above life's sweet-voiced pleasure, subtly 
woeing,— 
The wild heart-longings which enervate 
all. 
She heard the heavenly voice of mercy 
suing, — 
And rose responsive to her Master's 
call; 
Turned from the flashing rounds of hol- 
low fashion, 
Youth's promised raptures and the lov- 
er's speech, 

•A Sister of Charity In the poor wards, Provi- 
dence Hospital, "Washington, h. C. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



1G9 



The soul consuming fires of pride and 
fasliion, 
And set her heart above the world's 
low reach — 
Beyond the bristling rounds ot sin 

and strife, 
With Him whose love can light the 
waste of life ! 

How blest is she whose cirling years in- 
herit 
Life's high commission, sanctioned 
from above ! 
Who can portray the beauty of the spirit 
Which turns to pity thro' excess of 
love? 
Whose steps of peace fall soft in dark- 
some places. 
Whose voice rings sweet upon the ear 
of grief 
Whose gentle presence lights up sad, pale 
faces. 
Whose sympathetic touch commands 
relief, 
Who comes, like Hope all radiant, to 

proclaim 
Tiiat Christ is love, and woman is the 
same ! 

Oh ! ye who blindly bartered the eternal. 
To flaunt your brilliance in the garish 
world 
One maddening hour, — within life's 
witching vernal 
Lurk all the serpent passions, fanged 
and curled 
To strike and shrivel in the throes of 
pleasures,— 
Bear witness, 'mong the penitent or 
dead. 
How wise is she who took the world's full 
measure, 
And set her heel upon the serpent's 
head. 
Lo, all the unborn years of God are 

hers. 
And men and angels are her wor- 
shipers. 

In her fair presence, how we stand en- 
chanted 



By the sweet grace of perfect woman- 
hood ! 
By her chaste beauty how the soul is 
hauntea 
With dreams of worlds where all is 
pure and good ! 
As some old master's heaven-inspired 
creation 
Is fondly set in soft cathedral light, 
To woo the heart to deeper adoration. 
To catch the spirit thro' the raptured 
sight — 
So, set in sunlight, shall her fair face 

be 
A sacred picture in our memory ! 

Oh, Stab, love-lighted, whose magnetic 
beauty 
(Incomprehensive as the songs of 
birds) 
Transfigured by angelic grace and duty, 
Evades the harness of material words!— 
Could I but catch the raptures chaste and 
tender 
Which to the pure of heart alone be- 
long; 
That sin-subduing, soul-uplifting splen- 
dor 
Wliich bathes thy spirit in celestial 
song. — 
Tlien would I breathe along the 

thrilling lyre 
Words that would burn with high 
harmonic fire ! 

But grander lyres than mine shall hymn 
thy glory. 
When all the Heavenly choirs, thro' all 
the spheres 
Shall catch the penitent's sad whispered 
story !— 
Shall catch the eloquence of {grateful 
tears ! — 
Sliall catch thy name by feverish lips low 
spoken,— 
And the deep gratitude of dying eyes.— 
The prayer from hearts by sin and sorrow 
broken, — 
And weave them into song beyond the 
skies, 



170 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



Which shall outlast the evanescent 
years, 

And sound thy praises thro' the roll- 
ing spheres. 



EMILY SETON. 

1838 . 

Emily Seton, a sister of the Right Rev. 
Monsignor Robert Seton, D.D., was born 
in New York City, in 1838. Siie was a 
daugliter of Captain William Seton, 
U. S. N., who was the elder and only sur- 
viving son of the venerated Mother Seton, 
of Emmittsburg. The following lines are 
an extract from an unpublished voiume 
of poems written during a sojourn in 
Italy in the years 1860-61. 



TO A SLEEPING INFANT. 

My darling sleeps in liis pillowed cot. 
Nor dreams of other days and chang- 
ing lot, 
Nor knows, 0, happy child I 
If joyousness or grief be on life's water's 
wild. 

Those briglit locks clinging to that 

downy bed, 
Are no suggestion of a dying head ; 
The small hands clasped upon that bosom 

fair 
Speak not to me of anguish or of cold and 
dark despair. 

Yea, little one, how sweet thou art. 
And may thy years be spotless as thy 
heart. 

HARRIET M. SKIDMORE. 

Harriet M. Skidmore was born in New 
York City, and removed, at an early age, 
to Brockport, N. Y. In 1859 she went to 
California, where she has since resided. 
She has contributed to various Catliolic 
journals, and in 1877 published a volume 
of poems entitled "Beside the Western 
Sea." 



THE MIST. 
I watched the folding of a soft, white 
wing 

Above the city's heart — 
I saw the mist its silent shadow fling 

O'er thronged and busy mart— 
Softly it glided through the Golden Gate, 

And up the shining Bay, 
Calmly it lingered on the hills, to wait 

The dying of the day- 
Like the white ashes of the sunset fire, 

It lay within the West, 
Then onward crept, above the lofty spire 

In nimbus- wreaths to rest — 
It spread anon— its fleecy clouds unrolled 

And floated gently down — 
And thus I saw that silent wing enfold 

The Babel-throated town— 
A spell was laid on restless strife and din. 

That bade its tumult cease— 
A veil was flung o'er squalor, woe and 
sin. 

Of purity and peace — 
And dreaming hearts, so hallowed by the 
mist. 

So freed from grosser leaven, 
In the soft chime of vesper bells could list 

Sweet, echoed tones of Heaven- 
Could see, enraptured, when the starlight 
came, 

With lustre soft and pale, 
A sacred city, crowned with "ring of 
flame," 

Beneath her misty veil, 

SARA T. SMITH. 

Miss Smith resides in Philadelphia. She 
is a contributor to the Catholic World 
and other journals. 



" 5:30 A. M."— SHIPWRECKED.* 

" When will the day break ? Is there 
hope of dawn ? 
God ! this darkness in the mouth of 

hell!" 

*Stcamer Vera Cruz sank In th» Gulf of 
Mexico, at 5:30 a. m., August 29, 1880. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



171 



■ What is that ? Listen ! "— " Tliere's an- 
other gone ! " 
" Was it the Captain ? Who of you can 
tell?" 
'• Who is this near me ? Hold me— hold 
me close ! 
Pray for me— help I There is no hope, 
they say- 
Death is so near ! O Love ! must I die 
thus ! " 
"Oh, for one hour!" "See! yonder 
breaks the day ! " 

Yea ! All majesiic, slowly, and serene. 

The rounded glory of the morning rose. 
Beyond the awful waste's gray-pallid 
gleam, 
Beyond the drifting of those foaming 
snows. 
From every hollow of the unseen powers. 
The shrieking winds rushed maddened, 
drunk with doom, 
And Death, the Dauntless, veiled in briny 
showers 
Bent for his victims from the fleeing 
gloom. 

A night of sorrows mocked by cruel day ! 
The heavens pitiless, the dreadful 
waves ! 
A crushed, stripped hulk, tossed in their 
awful play— 
The ghastly dead, flung back from rest- 
less graves — 
And shrinking in the midst, alone with 
Him 
Whose Face the future is a veil to hide. 
Two score sad souls, who scan the level 
rim. 
Of their small world, where hopes no 
more abide. 

No more ! no more 1 A moment's breath- 
less pause — 
A shuddering throe from keel to sun- 
dered mast — 
Then, like a creature,— did they guess the 
cause ? 
The wreck reeled, quivering— and life's 
woe was past I 



The wide sea rolling under wide, gray 
sky,— 
A white, white face — a woman's float- 
ing hair— 
A man's strong arms outstretched, and 
raised on high — 
A silence — awful in its dead despair. 



IN SUIVIMER TIME. 

Are our hearts lighter forthe roses bloom? 

Or sad life fairer for their odorous 

breath ? 

Or tangled threads upon Fate's busy loom. 

More deftly straightened by the hamls 

of Death ? 

Because the sod is daisied, clover-flushed, 

Because the sunset lias an opal hue. 
Is there more hope for trembling "dust 
to dust," 
One shadow faintpr on our darkened 
view? 

It seems so, truly ! O'er the lovely earth 
We lookout, smiling, though with pain 
at heart. 
And half forget the Winter's desert 
dearth, 
And half believe our very selves a part 

Of changing radiance, morn, and noon, 
and night— 
Of living color, tingeing hill and stream, 
Of winds of blessing, sweeping soft and 
light. 
Across the current of our fevered 
dream. 

Is this a promise ? Surely, it may be 
The setting forth we now can grasp and 
hold 
Of some perfection deathless eyes shall see 
Beyond the ice rim of Death's Winter 
cold. 

CHARLES WARREN STODDARD 

Charles Warren Stoddard is a resident 
of San Francisco, Cal., and humorously 
says of himself, that he "is somewhere in 
the forties." He was born in Rochester, 



173 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



N. Y. He has travelled extensively in 
tropical climates. His poems abound in 
rich coloring, and are very musical and 
thoughtful. He is the famous correspond- 
ent of the San Francisco Chronicle. Mr. 
Stoddard has published several volumes. 



A GOSPEL OF AUTUMN. 

Across these leaves of gold, 

Under the Autumn sun, 
What solemn gospels are unrolled! 

I read them one by one. 

Behold, how small a bud. 
Tender, and frail, and brief. 

But nourished by the trees sweet blood, 
Is brought to perfect leaf 1 

Behold, how frail a bough, 

Its pliable, slim frame 
Quite stiffened with the frost, is nov/ 

In leafage, all a-flame ! 

Lo ! as the prophet heard 

Of old, I clearly hear 
From every burning bush God's word 

Outspoken to mine ear. 



IN A CONVENT. 

A fair white tower, where doves as white 

as snow 
Flutter, the while three bells swing, to 

and fro ; 
A garden and a cloister hid below. 

A Summer garden full of calm delight ; 
A cloister, wreathed with roses red and 
white ; 

A row of lilies meek, that hold their 

breath. 
As pale and mute and passionless as death ; 

Curtained beyond a leafy screen, the bees 
Drone their monotonous, sweet litanies. 

A fountain lisping the responses, caught 
On tiie still air with heavy incense 
fraught; 



And all within an island in the wide 
And wild lagoon ; an island sanctified- 
Wailed by the golden flood, the glowing 
amber tide. 



MERIDIAN. 

The sea is blazing all around; 
An idle bark is inward bound; 
The ripples lap upon the reef; 
The gulls' dull flight is low and brief; 
The low beach-grass begins to fade; 
The land-crabs sidle to a shade; 
The cocoa hangs its nutted head. 
And nothing siirs— the wind is dead. 

The peopled plain is still as death; 
No cricket cliirps, for lack of breath; 
A scorching dust is in the air; 
The glitter blinds me every-where; 
The hills are limned in colors fleet, 
And quiver in the noon-day heat; 
Tiie liz'irds pant upon the wall— 
An empty sky is over all. 



MRS. MARGARET P. SULLIVAN. 

Margaret Frances Buchanan is a native 
of Longfield, Tyrone, Ireland. Her father, 
James Buchanan, a descendant of Scotch 
immigrants who entered Ulster in the 
middle of the seventeentii century, was 
profitably engaged in the flax industry, 
and was a man of sterling character, 
refined in his tastes and thrifty in his 
occupation. Her mother, whose strong 
characteristics were a deep religious feel- 
ing and entire devotion to her children, 
was of the old Irish O'Gormans. The 
death of her father, while Margaret was 
an infant, made it prudent for the family 
to seek a new home ; and they settled in 
Detroit, Michigan, where she was given 
excellent educational advantages, learn- 
ing the classical and modern languages, 
mathematics and music. Her literary in- 
clinations were shown before she was 
fourteen in metrical translations from the 
jEneid, which were found worthy of pub- 
lication although the writer was un- 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



173 



known. The rewards of journulisiu 
attracted her to Chicago where she had 
ihe exceptional fortune of taking at once 
a high position. She has been for some 
lime literary editor and editorial writer 
on the Chicago Times ; and being a stu- 
dent by habit, and a ready composer, has 
devoted most of her leisure to contribu- 
tions, chiefly in prose, to the Catholic 
World and other periodicals. She has 
also been one of the writers for the 
American Catholic Quarterly Review. 
In 18T4: Miss Buchanan was married to 
Alexander Sullivan, Esq., an able young 
lawyer of Chicago, and, in presiding over 
the domestic affairs of a profoundly 
happy home, she finds a higher enjoy- 
ment than any which even the delights 
of literature afford. 



A REVISION. 

I read a legend, sweet and quaint. 
The other day, amid the faint. 
Calm light of early dusk ; 
The story, odorous of musk. 
Smiled in a dusk-bound, silent book, 
Neglected in a lover's nook. 

Of course you know it — how he strove 
To shape the marble like his love- 
That ancient sculptor ; how his hand. 
Guiding the chisel, like a wand. 
So perfect made the beauteous whole, 
Jove breathed in it his lady's soul. 

The dainty myth in modern time 
Will serve to tell in careless rhyme. 
Our sculptor sneers there is no Jove ; 
Science has made a myth of love ; 
So practical the love has grown, 
'Tis only beauty's heart in stone. 



THE IRISH FAMINE OF 1880. 

[This poem was first made public on an 
historical occasion — when Charles Stewart 
ParnelT and John Dillon were received ai the 
representatives of Ireland, in Chicago, by thirty 



tliuusaud persons, In the Exposition building. 
It was recited by Miss Emily Gavin ; her voice, 
according to one of the daily journals, being 
" not only full of feeling, but of such remarkable 
strength as to reach all in the vast audience. 
The poem prevoked in turn the wildest enthu- 
siasm and copious tears."] 

Behold the lovely vista within yon Irish 

dale! 
The rosy dawn is blushing behind her 

hazy veil ; 
The brooklet prattles on the sward, the 

linnet's early notes 
Are answered from tiie foliage by count- 
less tuneful tliroats ; 
The zephyrs tease the tassels of the nod- 
ding, drowsy grain 
That soon will be awakened to be tossed 

into the wain ;— 
Now o'er the gentle landscape the sun's 

broad rays are broke. 
And from the cottage chimneys ascends 

the cheery smoke ! 
The morning mist has disappeared— the 

vision is still clearer,— 
What terror-stricken band is that whose 

feet are hurrying nearer ? 
God of justice ! God of mercy ! They are 

weeping, they arc shrieking ! 
There is frenzy on their faces, and some 

with wounds are reeking I 
The bailiff horde behind them in cruel 

fury comes, 
For the smoke we saw ascending was the 

burning of their homea I 

miracle of miracles ! wondrous cause 
of wonder I 

Proclaim the story to mankind with trum- 
pet of the thunder ! 

A fertile, generous, joyous land, forbid to 
feed its people 

By laws enacted 'iieath the shade of con- 
secrated steeple I 

Starvation made by statute — famine a 
legal code 

For subjects of a Government with an 
" established " God ! 

Eook^Tint into their genial-sml for hun- 
ger's helpless cause — 



174 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



The Irish people famish— to obey their 
Eiiglisii laws ! 

Tliey plow and plant, they sow and reap, 
they spin and weave all day. 

The English fleet is at their wharves to 
bear it all away ! 

Their fathers' land the alien owns ; the 
landlords own their labor ; 

Their mortgaged lives have been fore- 
closed to glut their English neighbor ! 

This is Irish famine and this is English 

law ! 
And this the saddest sight on earth that 

Sorrow ever saw ! 
Nature's heart is touched with pity, Na- 
ture's eyes with tears are filled. 
While the people die of hunger in the 

fields that they have tilled ! 
From the pastures low the cattle : "For 

the slranger is our flesh ; " 
Moans the wind into the harvest: "For 

the stranger you must tiiresh ;" 
And the sheep bleat sadly seaward from 

green gorges in the rocks : 
" The stranger wears our wool, and the 

stranger eats our flocks ;" 
And the horses paw in fury, as they neigh 

from out the manger : 
"Oh, we would fight for Ireland — but 

our backs are for the stranger 1 " 

In this band of homeless outcasts limps a 
cripple whose deep scars 

Tell of service as a soldier, perhaps in 
foreign wars ; 

An arm is gone ; he totters ; in youth his 
hair is white ; 

Is it Imnger makes you tremble who 
shrank not in the fight ? 

The coat he wears is tattered— the color- 
yes, 'tis blue ! 

Were you ever in America ? pale friend, 
oh, tell me true I 

The ashen lips grow livid, the face be- 
comes less wan— 

"Aye, was I," proudly answers he, "I 
fought with Sheridan I 

" Before the War was over, my aged father 
died ; 



The only daughter, fair and young, lies 
buried at his side ; 

The dear old mother lingered still,— to 
shelter her from harm 

I came across the water, and worked the 
little farm ; 

'Twas taken from us yeserday — " "And 
she ? " " She died last night - 

Of hunger, hunger— oh, great God ! that 
son should see such sight ! 

In battle 1 ne'er trembled— in the whirr 
of shot, and shell 

I rushed with demon recklessness with- 
in the living hell ! 

To-day I shake with palsy, unmanned by 
hunger's pangs ; 

I feel about my breaking heart a slimy 
creature's fangs ; 

And all are gone who loved me, the last 
one of my kin ; 

Patrick drove the serpents out to let En- 
glish reptiles in I 

" Tell my comrades in America who wore 

the loyal blue 
That Erin was the stanchest of all the 

friends they knew ; 
Her heart was theirs, her strength was 

theirs, she was proud to fight 
To make liberty and manhood the same 

for black and white ! 
On every field your standard won, Irish 

blood like water ran : 
Remember Shields and Meagher, remem- 
ber Mulligan I 
1 gave my arm to strike the chain from 

off your black slave's hand ; 
And now I die of hunger, white slave, in 

my native land ! 
The debt your great Republic owes to 

those who for her bled, 
Oh, comrades, hasten to repay ! Send 

starving Ireland bread ! *' 

Lo, here a mother hurries, in her fleshless 

arms a child, 
Her limbs begin to fail her, her face is 

white and wild ; 
Full forty miles she walked to-day to 

reach a poor-house door. 



OF CATHOLIC POETS. 



175 



And keep the feeble flickering light in 

eyes — that ope no more ! 
Dead the babe upon her bosom 1 Oli, 

mother's mighty sorrow, 
Bewail in vain your journey's length ! 

bewail your awful morrow ! 
"Dear turf," she faintly murmurs, "take 

the life I could not save ! 
01), land that dare not give her bread, 

give thou my child a grave ! " 
She falls— she dies -but not until her 

voice has stirred the tombs : 
"Victoria, with my milkless breasts, I 

curse your English wombs ! " 

Philanthropist and missioner lives on St. 

George's Channel- 
Sends Bibles— to the Pope of Rome, and 

to the tropics— flannel ! 
Prays godly prayers iovforelfftism before 

her holy altar. 
The while her hands twist at her back 

for Ireland's neck a halter ! 
In foreign lands protects the weak, with 

treaties— or with cannon ! 
And thrusts the dagger to the heart of 

her sister on the Shannon ! 
So generous to her foreign foes they 

praise her to the sky — 
And leaves her Irish subjects one privilege 

—to die ! 
Come, nations of both continents, behold 

a Land of Graves I 
Come, Russia, with Siberia ! France, 

bring your galley slaves ! 
Come, leering Turk, witli dripping knife, 

refreshed in Christian gore ! 
Bashi-bazouk, hold up your head ! Be ye 

ashamed no more ! 
empires of a modern world ! beiiold 

this Christian nation, 
That makes her people paupers, and 

grants them then— starvation I 



When eight years of age, she went to the 
Rev. Father White, at St. Matthew's 
Church, Washington, D. C, and was bap- 
tized. Having no CaMiolic friends or sur- 
roundings, her religious education was 
neglected for some years, and although 
she cherished the germ of Faith, it 
was not till she became a pupil of St. 
Simeon's School, New Orleans, that she 
made her first coiimiunion. During the 
past six or seven years she has been a con- 
iributor to the daily press of New Orleans 
and the Southern, Quarterly Review, ed- 
ited by her father. In the Spring of 
1S77 she had the happiness of seeing her 
mother baptized in the same little chap- 
el where she had made her first com- 
munion, and one year later, her venerable 
father, who had been a Unitarian min- 
ister, received the sacrament in the same 
iioly place. In the Winter of 1880 she 
published her first volume, entitled " Do- 
nata and other Poems," which has been 
highly praised, and from which we select 
the poem given below. 



LILY C. WHITAKEll. 

Miss Lily C. Whitaker (Adidnac) was 
born in Charleston, S. C, and is a daughter 
of Dr. D. K. and Mrs. M. S. Whitaker. 



THE LILY. 

Dark and damp was the narrow cell, 
Where my heart began its throbbing— 

Close and cold 

Was the earthly mould, 
That held me down in its clammy fold, 
And the winds above were sobbing. 

Then came the days of the early Spring— 
The month of smiles and weeping — 

April the fair, 

With tender care. 
Who wove of sunbeams her shining hair. 
Awoke the seedlings sleeping. 

Soft and warm glowed the genial sun. 
As a beam to my heart he darted; 

The amber ray 

Of the joyous day 
On the bosom of earth, as it trembling lay, 
New life to u)y soul imparted. 

Bright and clear in their silvery ppray, 
Fell the soothing, balmy, showers; 



176 



THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 



And entered the earth, 

Waking to birth, 
With a touch of joy and a ripple of mirth, 
All the lovely, fairy flowers. 

I throbbed and swelled and swellin;^ burst 
Through ihe wall of my bulbous prison, 

Tiirough ihe yielding clay, 

I found my way 
To a spot where the early sunbeams lay. 
Just as the day had risen. 

Freshly green, through the moistened sod 
I peeped with trembling wonder, 

From the lowly sod, 

To the face of God 
Who made me spring from the mouldy 

clod. 
And broke my bonds asunder. 

Firm and tall grew my graceful stalk. 
To the breath of the breezes swaying, 

In the rosy dawn 

Of the early morn, 
When dew drops cover the jeweled lawn, 
And when evening winds are playing. 

Strong and swift through my floral veins 
I felt the sweet sap flowing, 

As it mounted up 

To the waxen cup. 
To form the nectar that honey bees sup, 
And aid the petals growing. 

Leaf after leaf sprang out of my stem, 
Arrow-like, graceful, declining ; 

All dripping with dew, 

Neath the beautiful blue 
Where the eye of God keeps looking 

through , 
And the stars at eve are shining. 

Soft and young rose an oval bud. 

At the top of the green leaves bending. 

On a lovely day, 

In the month of May, 
I opened my heart to tne warm sun ray 
Around me perfume seildiug. 



Six petals fair unfolded then, 
In their snowy waxen beauty, 

And the pistil tall, 

With the stamens all. 
Sprang into being at nature's call. 
To beautify life, their duty. 

The golden dust, like a yellow veil. 
On ray stamens soft was lying, 

And the wine of dew 

Through my fibers flew. 
And deep in my bosom hid from view, 
While zephyrs were gently sighing. 

I grow in almost every land, 
I bloom by every fountain • 

On Nile's broad breast 

My floating crest 
Is hailed with joy— an omen blest ; 
And I deck the shady mountain. 

They pluck me for the bridal day, 
When all is joy and gladness. 

And I yield my breath 

In the house of death. 
And I bloom o'er graves on the lonely 

heath, 
Where all is dreary sadness. 

In the dim and shadowy days of old 
The time of fabled story, 

In the olden days 

When the golden lays 
Of the Master Minstrel spoke my praise. 
And clothed me with spotless glory. 

I neither sow, nor reap, nor spin. 
Nor gather at the gleaming, 

But a Mighty Hand 

In the deathless land. 
My being and beauty and sweetness 

planned. 
And gave me a heavenly meaning. 

I love to dress the God-made earth, 
To smile in hall and bower; 

But a sweeter place, 

Where I veil my face. 
Is the altar door whence flows all grace. 
Where the Mighty hides his power. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Across tlR' leaves of gold, _ . - _ 

A culprit, fay, in haste one day, - 

A day when Summer supersedes the Spring-, 

A fair wliite bower, where doves as white as situw, 

A faithful friend I fain would lind, - 

A flowery waste, through ages si'ay. 

After giving I speak of taking. 

Ah, freedom is a noble thing, - - - 

All ! my heart is weary waiting. 

Ah! why should I recall them, the gay, the joyous yc 

A hymn to Satumus ! a grateful hymn, 

Alas, what am I, and in what estate ! 

All day the low-hung clouds have dropped, - 

All is divine, . . . _ _ 

And lusty Flora did her bloomes sprede, 

And so your life has been a dreary story, 

Another year passed over— gone, 

A physiological student one day, - 

A place in thy memory, dearest. 

Are our hearts lighter for the roses bloom V 

As beams a perfect, restful, mellow day, 

As from some roaring ocean, lo! the city, 

As murmur gently through the balmy air, - 

A song for the joyful Maytime, - 

A song, Yeh-sa-go-wah, I measure for tliec, 

As through the crouching underwood the wild 1 

madly came, _ - - - 

At eve, as the sun sinks low in the west, 
A violet, hid from rain and worldly eyes, 
A youth kneels at a woman's feet, and seems. 
Behold the lovely vista within yon Irish dale, 
Be kind, dear love, and never say good-bye. 
Be It my most pleasing duty, - 
Beneath the grand cathedral's lofty dome, 
Beneath the mountain's scowling shade, 
Bewailing in my chamber thus alone, 
Blow from the south, ye balmy winds of May, 
Calm was the night, on Levi's height. 
Choose the darkest part of the grove, 
Come, O Lord, my God, my all, 
Come, sit, my son, beneath the shade where Auti 

winds are lying, . - - - 

Come to me, dearest; I'm lonely without thee! 
Daphnis is mute, and hidden nymphs complain, - 
Dark and damp was the narrow cell, - 
Diaphenia, like the daffydowndilly, 

lir 



CttAELES "WaEKEX STODDAUD, - 172 

liEv. He>'EY A. Bra:<x, D.l)., - 101 

Lady Geoegiana Fulleutox, 58 

CllAELES "WaEREX StODDAUD, - IVi 

JrLIAXA Beexees, - - 21 

JOHX BOVLE, - - - 144 

AVilliam Dux ha i:, - - 2o 

JoHX Baebove, - - - IS 

Dexis Florexce JIcCaethv, • 51 

I'tEV. Ciiaeles Meeuax, - - nil 

liEV. Michael MuLLEX, D.D.. - 11)2 

Maey, Qukex of Scots, - • 24 

Geoffeey Chaucer, - - 17 

Caedinal Xewmax, - - 43 

Gavix Douglas, - - 23 

Elizabeth Waylex, - - 137 

Thomas O'Hagan, - - 131 

Aethuk J. Stace, - - ■_ 104 

Gbeald Gkiffin, - • 48 

Saeah T. Smith, - - - 171 

Daniel Coxxollv, - - 89 

Michael Scanlax, - - - lii8 

William J. Kelly, - - 13!) 

Katheeixe Eleanoe Cox WAV, 130 

William Hexey Cuyeel Hosmkk, 5!) 

John Savage, - - - 84 

Thomas O'Hagax, - - ■ 132 

Joseph W. S. Noeeis, - - 163 

P. Heuky Doy^k, - - - 152 

Mrs. Maegaeet F. SuLLiVAX, - 173 

Mes. Maey E. Blake, - - 143 

Michael O'Conxoe, - - 103 

Eliot Eydee, _ . _ 134 

Marion Muie, - - - lfj2 

King James I. of Scotlaxd, - 19 

Joseph W. S. Noekis, - - 16i 

Joseph K. Foeax, - - - 136 

John Deydex, - - • 32 

Key. Matthew 1!us»ell, (S.J., - 167 

Key. Thomas Ambeose Butlei:, - 98 

Joseph Beenan, - - 83 

Maueice Francis Egax, - - 129 

Lily C. Wiiitakee, - - 175 

IlEXEY Constable, - - - 27 



178 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Down the fair turrets fall the rubied rays, - 
Daylight was dying, and dimness was creeping, - 
Each year she comes, whom poets call dear Juni', - 
Ellen Bawn, O Ellen Bawn, you darling, darling dear, you. 
Eve is now her shades extending, 

Fair, ladye fair, beneath whose gentle sway. 

Faire madame, you ! - 

Fame, honor, beauty, state, trains, blood and liiiUi, 

Farewell, O shall it be farewell. 

Far, on the brink of day . . - . - 

From a Munster vale they brouglit liei', 

For this ye know well, tho' I wouldin lie. 

From harmony, from heavenly harmony, 

Full eighteen hundred years like cinders down Vrsuvius' 

side, - . . . - - 

Furl that banner, for 'tis weary, - - - - 

Gazing serene upon the battled din, - 
Glad with the perfect light of sea and sky. 
Gleaming o'er mountain, coast and wave. 
Glorious victim of my magic, . . - - 

Grandma sits in her great arm chair, 
Hark ! how chimes the passing bell. 
Here I sit this silent even, by the lirouil liluc HuiIscjm's 

side, ------ 

Hidden in the web that fair Arachue weaves. 

Historic muse, my joyous voice Inspire. - 

How joyously their steps keep time, - - - 

How often doth a wild Jlower bring, 

How swift has been the flight, - - - - 

How soon we glide to Summer's balmy ininu', 

1 am weary of tlie garden, . - . - 

I asked on the day of her nuptials, 

I beheld in a dream this fantastical king, 

I can behold thy golden hair, . - - . 

I, far removed from meadows green, - 

If thou couldst be a bird, what bird wouldst thou In? - 

If thou dost bid thy friend farewell, - - - 

I give my soldier boy a blade, . _ - - 

I have a seagoing spirit haunts my sleej), 

1 hold him great, who for love's sake, 

I know not why with you, far sombre lieigbt. 

1 leave thee friendless in a world of tears, 

I love, and 'gainst my heart has throbbed the heart. 

Inconstant — and why not, O fair Helene? 

In the cool sweet hush of a wooded nook. 

In the loveliest valley of Kew Hampsh'ic, 

In the sea-port of St. Malo, 'twas a smiling morn in May, 

1 read a legend, sweet and quaint. 

Irreverent Milton! bold I deem thy flight 

I saw her once, one little while, and then no more, 

I saw the poets in a mighty hall. 

It dawned on my soul like a picture of light, 

It is vesper hour, and a stillness deep. 

It was a silent parting, though the stars, - 

I walk down the valley of silence, . . - 



I'AtiK 

Mrs. Agnes Vivien McLean I'hel.vx 13U 

Frank O'Ryan, - - - 10."> 

Edith W. Cook, - - - 149 

James Clarence Manuan, - 48 
IIev. James Kent Stone (Father 

Fidelis, C.P.), - - - 108 

Anna T. Sadlier, - - 133 

William Habington, - - 30 

Kenelme Digby, - 20 

Mrs. Anne Chambers Ketohu.m. 15S 

■louN B. Tabb, - - - 116 

IliciiARD Dalton 'Williams, - 6'.) 

(lEOFFREY Chaucer. - - IT 

John Drydex, - - - 31 

Henry O'Meara, - - 123 

IJev. Abbam J. Ryan, - - 108 

Brother Azarias, - - 126 

Mrs. Maky E. Blake, - - 143 

Rev. Jedediah V. Huntingion, 61 

Mrs. SrsAN Blanchard Elder. - 152 

Kate T. McPhelim, - - 161 

James Shirley, - - - 27 

John Locke, - - - 120 

Mrs. Madeleine V. Dahlgren, 151 

Rev. Henry A. Brann, D.D., - 100 

John Savage. - - - 85 

Rev. Frederick William FAnEU, 5T 

John R. Benson, - - - 99 

Timothy E. Howard, - - 98 

George Hexby' Miles, - - 73 

Elizabeth Cakmel Hendry, - 124 

Rev. Jeremiah W. Cummings, D.U., 70 

Sir Ashton Cokain, - - 30 

William Gkoghegan. - - 115 

Kev. Frederic William Faber. - 56 

(Joventry Patmore, - - 72 

William Maginn, - - - 38 

Thomas D'Arcy- McGee, - 77 

Adelaide Anne Procter, - 80 

I<;«iTH W. Cook, - - - 147 

Lady' Georgiana Fitllerton, - 58 

Rev. Matthew Russell, S.J., - 167 

Maurice Francis Egan, - - 128 

Eleanor C. Donnelly-, - 122 

William Seton, - - - 88 

Thomas D'Arcy McGee. - 76 

Mrs. Margaret F. Sullivan, - 173 

Brother Azarias, - - 120 

James Clarence Mangan, 46 

Elizabeth Waylen, - - 138 

John Curran Keegan, - 132 

James Joseph Gahan, - - 153 

Anna T. Sadlier, - - 134 

Rev. Abram J. Ryan, - - 107 



INDEX OF FIlittT LINES. 



I watched the folding of a soft, white wing, 

I worked in my harvest field, - 

I would have gone, God bade me stay, 

"Jim, you've asked me why I doff my hat! " 

Kneeling at Knock amid visions of glory. 

Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom. 

League nut with him in friendship's tie, 

Let be what is; why should we strive and wrestle, 

Like a gem in rarest setting, or a poet's dream of bea 

Like a lilac in the Spring, - - . - 

Like morning when her early breeze. 

Little maiden, dost thou pine. 

Loved priest, loved bard, how like my native isle. 

Love in my bosom, like a bee. 

Marguerite April, and Ophelia May, - 

My darling sleeps in his pillowed cot. 

My life is like the Summer rose. 

My little boy, who looked from thoughtful eyes, 

Nothing is our own; we hold our pleasures, - 

O, blame not the bard if he fly to the toweis, - 

October's loveliest flower, so wondrous blue, 

(), fairer than Uaudusian fount, . - - 

Of all sweet singers in the ranks of song. 

Of all the causes which conspire to blind, 

O, for the wings of the wind to wander, 

O, kind acquaintance, thou who, proverbs say, - 

O, kiss me once before I go, - 

O, my dark Rosaleen, - - _ - 

Once, in the Summer time, while wandering. 

Once I had a little sweetheart. 

On a ripe October morning, just after a crisp, clear f 

One stilly day, 'neath Autumn's amber beam, - 

Only from day to day, . - - - 

Only this, and nothing more, 

O, paradise! O, paradise, 

O, postman, speed thy tardy gait, 

Oriverof time, the long ago, thou wert Imt arlppliufj 

O, sister, cloistered, yet a sister still, 

O, whither dost thou fly? can not my vow, - 

Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl, 

Rapt into future times, the bard begun, 

Rich and rare were the gems she wore, - 

Ringers on the chiming anvil, 

Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river, 

Sad is our youth, for It is ever going, , - 

Shall I, hopeless, then pursue. 

She fell asleep on Christmas Eve, 

Shelly! the wondrous music of thy soul, 

She shroudeth vice in virtue's veil, - 

She once was a lady of honor and wealth, 

She was all mildness, yet 'twas writ. 

She wears a royal, golden crown. 

She whom th.-i, heart must ever hold most dear, 

Shine on, thou bright beacon, 

Shun delays ! they breed remorse. 



Harriet M. Skidmokk, - 
Edward Hyde, 

ClIBISTINA Gr. ROSSETTI 
.lOUN F. SCANLAN, - 

Thomas J. McGeogax, - 

Cabdimal Newman, 

Gerald Griffin, 

John Boyle O'Reilly, 

Marcella a. Fitzgerald, 

Maurice Francis Egan, - 

tuomas hoore, - 

Cardinal Newman, 

Rev. W. T. Tkeacv, S.J., 

Thomas Lodge, 

John Acton, - - - 

Emily Seton, 

Richard Henry Wilde, 

Coventry Patmoee, 

Adelaide Anne Procter, 

Thomas Moore, 

Eliza Allen Starr, 

Charles H. A. Esling, 

Daniel Connolly, 

Alexander Pope, - 

Alfred W. Arrington, 

Robert Dwyer Joyce, 

Christina G. Rossetti, 

James Clarence Mangan, 

Daniel Connolly, 

John Boyle O'Reilly, 

Rebecca Veronica Roberts, 

Robert Dwyer Joyce, 

John Boyle O'Reilly, 

William Louis Kelly, 

Rev. Frederick William Faber, 

Denis Florence McCarthy, 

T. D. O'Callaghan, 

Henry O'Meara, 

William Habington, - 

William Davenant, 

Alexander Pope, 

Thomas Moore, 

John Savage, - . - 

James Clarence Mangan, 

Aubrey de Vere, 

Sir Edward Sherburne, - 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 

John B. Tabb, 

Rev. Robert Southwell, S.J., 

Gerald Griffin, 

Coventry Patmore, 

E. J. MoPhelim, 

Aubrey de Vere, 

Jeremiah Joseph Callanan, 

Rev. Robert Southwell, S.J., 



179 

Page 
170 

- 156 

87 

- 105 
159 

- 44 
50 

- 113 
117 

- 129 

38 
44 
125 

- 26 
138 

■ 170 

38 

- 72 
79 

- 36 
75 

- 118 

90 

■ 33 
54 

- 157 

87 

- 47 
90 

- 112 

71 

- 157 
113 

- 102 

55 

- 53 
164 

- 123 

29 

- 28 
33 

- 37 
86 

- 46 
61 

■ 31 
80 

■ 116 

25 

• 49 

72 

- 139 

60 

- 39 
23 



180 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Sing on! I love that olden lay, - - - - 

SiiiK the old song, amid llii; sounds dispersing, 

Softly fell tlie touch of twilight on Judea's silent hills, 

Softly the blended liglit of evening rests, 

Some dive for pearls to crown a mortal brow, 

Some reckon their age by years. - - - - 

Sweet flower of light, ----- 

Sweet is the month of honey and roses, - 

Sweet saint of God, and well-beloved of men. 

Symbol of love divine, . - . - - 

The beautiful world hath its mountains and plains, 

The dear St. Bernard, ere eve's shadows fell 

The faithful lielm commands the keel. 

The glories of our blood and state, 

The lark now leaves his watery nest. 

The lopped tree in time will grow again, - 

The lover with a knightly soul, 

The moonlit billows lave our bark, - - - 

The morning is cheery, my boy.s, arouse 1 

The mulBed drum's last roll has beat. 

Then, as a bait, she bringeth forth her ware. 

The old wine fllled him, and he saw with eyes, ■ 

The pillar-towers of Iri land, how wondrously lliey stand I 

The ptire, pale star of Autumn eve. 

There's a legend that's told to a gypsy who dwelt, - 

There's a mound on the prairie, whiTc flowers nrr 

brightest, . . - . . 

There is many a grief for our hearts to bear, 
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet. 
The round full moon sheds forth its mellow light. 
The sea is blazing all around, - _ - - 

The Summer sun has passed away, ami o'er the mounl- 

ain's head, - . - . - 

The virgin moon with one clear star, - - - 

The waves that on the sparkling sand, 
The woods, so strangely solemn and majestic, - 
They live by law, not like the fool, _ - - 

They'll talk of him for years to come, - - - 

Tliey made her a grave too cold and damp, - 
They're very pretty little things, 
They stand on the bank, an eager group, 
This is my attic room: the walls and floor. 
This land of ours was famous, once — no land was ever 
more, ..-..- 

Those we love truly never die. 
Though tuneless, .stringless, it lies there in dust. 
Though winds grow chill, though stately forest qiu'cn, 
"Tis not for love of gold I go, . - - . 

'Tis not the feast which changes with the ever chang- 
ing times, ..---- 

'Tis not thy promised heavenly reward, 

To the hall of that feast came the sinful and fair. 

To this scene of sylvan glory. 

To thy lover, ...... 

To speak of gifts and almos deeds, . 



William IIe.vry C'i"vkki. Hosmer, 58 

AUISREY I)E Vere, - - - GO 

Mrs. Mary K. Maxntx, - 158 

Mrs. Elizabeth Fries Ellet, - C4 

Cardinal "Wiseman, - - 45 

llEV. Abram J Kyax - - 107 

Kev Adrian IJouquette, - 55 

Patrick Sarsfield Cassidy, - 127 

SiSAN L. Emery', - - 153 

Uernard Isaac Dorward, - G:5 

Mrs. M. S. "VViutaker, - ■ K5 

.losEPn "\V. S. NoRRis, - - 1()3 

John Boyle O'Reilly, - 113 

James Shirley, - - - 28 

Sir William Datenaxt, - 29 

Rev. Robert Southwell, S.J., - 25 
William Henry Citerl Hosmer, 59 

Mrs. Anna Hanson Dorsey, - 151 

Michael O'Connor, - - 102 

Theodore O Hara, - - - 66 

Sir Thomas More, - 24 

Mairice Francis Egax, - - 130 

Denis Florence McCarthy, - 52 

Patrick Sarsfield Cassidy, - 127 

Ret. Francis Mahony-, - 41 

Mrs. E. B. HoLLOWAY, - - 155 

Kliot Ryder, - - - 135 

Thomas Moore, - - - 35 

Eliot Ky'der, - - 135 

Charles Warren Stoddard, - 172 

Rev. Edward Pi'rcell, - 50 

Eliza Allen Starr, - - 75 

Mrs. Elizabeth Fries Ellet, 65 

Eliza Allen Starr, - - 74 

Coventry Patmore, - - 72 

Ret. Francis JIahony', - - 42 

Thomas Moore, - - - 37 

Mrs. Mart: C. BniKE, . . 146 

Henry' W. I. G.vrland, . . 126 

Eliot Ryder, . - - 135 

Ret. Thomas X. Burke, O.P., . 145 

John Boyle O'Reilly', . 113 

Maurice Francis Egax, . . 129 

William Geoghegax, . . 114 

John Baxim, . . .40 

Rev. B. D. Hill (Father Edmund, C.P. n54 

Cardiual Wiseman, . . 45 

Jeremiah Joseph Callanan, _ :!9 

Rev. Patrick Cronin, . . 94 

Richaed Crashaw, . . .30 

William Duxbak, . . 22 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



181 



To tread a maze that never shall have end. 
To you, my purse, and to none other wight, . 
'Twas in the springtide, when its glorious bourgeon, 
'Twixt the waning of Spring and the Summer's sweet 

dawning, ...... 

Vital spark of heavenly flame, 

Vows are vain. No suppliant breath. 

■\Ve who sat at his cheerful hearth, . 

What argent boat, flower-laden afloat, . 

What beautiful pictures have gladdened my vision, 

"When balmy eve and roseate dawn, 

■When I am dead, my dearest. 

When the day has come, darling, that your darling 

must go, ...... 

When tlic soft breath of evening, with loving caresses, 

When will the day break? is there hope of dawn? 

Where are the swallows fed? 

Where the snow-clouds thickest darki'u, 

While St. Serf until a stead, .... 

While wandering up the mountain side. 
Why art thou slow, thou rest of trouble, Death? 
Wildly I wander through love-builded palaces. . 
With deep affection, ..... 

With just the faintest chill of death, 

Without one bitter feeling let us part, 

With tardy feet, as Spring recedes, 

Would my good lady love me best, . 

Would wisdom for herself b<' wooed, 

Te blushing virgins, happy are, 

Ve shepherds of this pleasant vale, 

Ye who despoil the sons of toil, saw ye tliis sight to-day? 

Ye ask me, friend, in mourning tears. 



Henrt Coxs'table, . . aii 

(iEOFFREY Chaucer, . . 17 

J. C. CURTIN, . . . 15(1 

ElEAXOR C. DOXXELLY, . . Vi\ 

Alexander Pope, . . :U 

William Habixgtox, . . I'ii 

Thomas D'Arcy McGee, . T? 
Mrs. Madeleine V. l)Ain.<ii:KN'. _ l.'io 

AXNIE A. FlTZGERALO, . lll'.l 

Joiix Boyle, . 144 

ClIRISTIXA G. Rossetti, . 87 

Joseph Brenax, . . .Si 

IJev. Mich.\el B. Browx, 1iii» 

Sarah T. Smith, . . .171) 

.Vdelaide Axxe Procter, . 7S 

Key. Doxald X.wier McLeod, . i\' 

Axdrew of Wyxtoux, - IS 

ViXTOX AuGtTSTI.VE GODDARD, - 12."! 

Philip Massixger, . - 27 

John Savage, . . - Kr> 

Rev. Fraxcis Mahoxt, . 40 

Timothy E. Howard, . . 93 

.Vdelaide Axxe Procter, - VH 

William D. Kelly, - . 12ii 

liOBERT HeXRYSOUX, - . 21 

Coventry Patmore, . . 72 

AViLLiAM Habixgtox, . . 2!) 

William Hamiltox, . . H") 

Charles G.wax Duffy, . (U 

Very Rev. John A. Kochfokd, o.P. KKi 



NAMES OF SUBSCRIBERS. 



ACKEUMAN, Prof. II., 

Xotro Damo. Iml. 



Uaasex, Veiy Rev. John B., 

Apalachicola, Fla. 

Baasen, MrcHAEi. A. J., A.3[., 

Milwaukoo, Wis. 

Bensox, John R., 

Mount JIoi ris, Midi. 

BoYJ,E, JOHX, 

Xew Yoik City. 

Bowles, Miss Jeax, 
Hamilton, Out. 

BuANx, Rev. Henry A., D.D., 

New York City. 

BiiENAN, Rev. RrcKAKD, LL.D., 
New York City. 

Brodekick, Miss Kate G., 

New York City. 

Bkophy, Rev. M. J., 

New York City. 

Brown, Rev. Michael B., Pli. D., 

Youngstown, O. 

Brother Jerome, 

St. Francis' College, Rrooklyu, N.V. 

Butler, Rev. Thomas A. 

St. Louis, Mo. 

BiRKE, Mrs. Mary C, 

New York City. 

Callender, Mrs. Henry, 

Boston. Mass. 

183 



Cappon, Rev. J., 

Niles, Mich. 

Carrier, Rev. Joseph C, C.S.C, 

St. Laurent College, Montreal. 

Carkoll Institute, 

Washington, I). C. 

Cassidy, p. M., 

New York City. 

Ci>()WRY, Rev. Willia.m, 

New York City. 

CORI5Y, Very Rev. William, C.S.C, 

Watertown, Wis. 

Connolly', Daniel, 

New York City. 

Conway, Miss Katherine E., 

Buffalo, N Y. 

CoRTEY, Rev. Charles R 

Yonkers, N. Y. 

Cooney, Rev. Petkr P., Miss. Ap., 

South Bend, Ind. 

Cronin, Rev. Patrick, 

Buffalo, N. Y. 

CURUAN, M. P., 

Boston, Mass. 



Dami/jukn, Mrs. M. V^., 
Washington, D. C. 

DiNNEN, Rev. John R. 

Crawfordsville, Ind. 

Dor(;HERTY, Rev. James J., 

New York City. 

Doyle, John J. 

Evanston. 111. 



184 



NAMES OP SUBSCHIBERS. 



Edwards, James F., LL.B , 

Notre DaiUL", Ind. 

Kgan, Maurice Francis, A.M., 

New York City. 

Elder, Mrs. Charles D., 

New Orleans, La. 

EsLixG, Charles H. A. 

PliihuU'lpliia, Pa. 

Farrell, James T., 

New Yolk City. 

Fenlon, James. 

Leavenwortli, Kansas. 

Fitzgerald, Miss M. A., 

Gilruy, Cal. 

FlTZGIRBON, J. J., Esq 

Chieago, 111. 

Fitzgerald, Miss M. G., 

Gilroy, Cal. 

FooTE, Peter, A. M., 

Chicago, 111, 

Geoguecjan, William, 

New York City. 

Glenx, Mrs. E. C, 

Memphis, Tenn. 

GocivELN, Rev. F. W., S.J., 

St. John's College, Fordhani, \. V 

Granger, Very Rev. Alexis. CSC. 

Notre Dame, Ind. 

Grace, Hon Wm. R., 

New York City 

JIammond, J. J)., 

New York City. 

IIagerty, Rev. Dems, C.S.C, 

South Bend, Ind. 

Herald Des Glaubens, 

St. Louis, Mo. 

Healy, Kt. Rev. James A., D.D., 
Portland, Me. 



Mealy, Rev. P. J., 

Brewsters, N. Y. 
Hk.ndrv, Miss E. C, 

Philadelphia, Pa. 

lIoi.LowAY, Mrs. E. ]}., 
Shelbyville, 111. 

Howard, Timothy E., A.M., LL.B. 

South Bend, Ind. 

Hi (jiiES, Bernard, 

New York City. 

HuuD Charles E. 

Boston, Mass. 

Hi rley, Very Rev. Michael, 

Peoria, 111; 

Jansen, Egbert L., 

Chicago, lU, 

Hudson, Rev. 1). E. 

Notre Dame, Ind. 

Kerland, Miss Kate, 

New York City. 

Kelly, Rev. Christopher, C.S.C, 

Watertown. Wis. 

Kelly, Hon. John, 

New York City. 

Kelly W. D. 

Boston, Mass. 

KiLROY, Rev. E. B , D.D., 

Statford, Out. 



Lane, C. E., 

Chicago. 111. 
Laukin, Rev. John J., 

New York City . 

La.mbing, Rev. A. A. 

Pittsburgh, Pa. 

Levden, Rev. Thomas, 

Woodstock, 111. 

Lynch John, 

New York City. 



NAMES OF SUBSCRIBERS. 



185 



Lynch Thomas J., 

New York City. 



Mara, Rev. J. M., S.J., 

Las Vegas, N. M. 

McC.ABE, ]\Iiss Maiy E., 

Kew York City. 

McDowell, Rev. H. C, 

Kew York City. 

McNamar.\^ James, 

Dexter, Mich. 

McGiNNis, B., LL.B., 

Ottawa, IIL 

Moriarty, Rev. James J., 

Cliatham, N. Y. 

Mother Angela, 

St. Mary's Academy, Notre Dame, 
Ind 

Mother Arsene, 

Academy of Our Lady of tlie 
Sacred Heart, Fort Wayne, Ind. 

Muir, Miss Marion, 
Morrison, Col. 

MuLLALLY, John, 

New York City. - 



Nelson, Thomas, 

Chicago, 111. 

Newman, Rev. M. W., 

Mt. Klsco, N. Y. 

NoRFLEET James, 

Tarboro, N. C. 



O'Brien, P., 

South Bend, Ind. 

O'Hagan, Thomas, 

Belleville, Ont. 

O'Keefe, Rev. John, C.S.C, 

College of Our Lady of the Sacred 
Heart, Watertown, Wis, 



O'Meara, Henry, 

Boston, Mass. 

Onahan, W. J., LL.D., 

Chicago, 111. 

O'Reilly, John Boyle, LL.D., 

Boston, Mass. 

O'Reilly, Rev. Michael, 

Valparaiso, Ind. 

O'Ryan, Francis, 

New York City. 

Park, John F., 

Australia, Miss. 
Phelan, Mrs. John B., 

Chicago, 111. 



Riley, J. P., 

Shanes Crossings, Ohio. 
KiORDON, Rev. P. W., 

Chicago, 111 

RocHBORD, Very Rev. J. A., O.P., 

Washington, D. C. 

RoNAN, Rev. P., 

Dorchester, Mass. 

Rouqtjette, Rev. A., 

Bayou Lacombe, La. 
Ryan, Rt. Rev. P. J., D.D., 

St Louis, Mo. 

Ryder, Mrs. Iris C, 

Saratoga, N. T. 

Ryder Mrs. Sophia M., 

Dorchester, Mass. 



Sadlier, Miss Anna T., 
Montreal, C. E. 

Savage, John, LLD., 

New York City. 

Scully, Rev. Thomas, 

Cambridgeport, Mass, 



186 



NAMES OF SUBSCRIBERS. 



Seton, Rt. Rev. Robekt, D.D., 

Jersey City, N. J. 

Shilue, Mrs. Helen P., 

Gilroy, Cal. 

Shickey, Patrick, 

South Bend, lud. 

SisTEH Anna Raphael, 

San Jose, Cal. 

Sisters op Charity, 

Academy of the Immaculate Con- 
ception, Davenport, Iowa. 

Simpson, Miss Carlotta, 

New York City. 

Skidmore, Miss Harriet M., 

San Francisco, Cal. 

SoRiN, Very Rev. Edward, C.S.C., 

Notre Dame, Ind. 

Stace, Arthur J., A.M., 

South Bend, Ind. 

Starr, ]Miss Eliza Allen, 

Chicago, 111. 

Strain, Rev. Patrick, 

Lynn, Mass. 

Stdddard Charles Warren 

San Francisco, Cal. 

SuLLiY.\N, Rev. T. D., S T.L., 

Chicago, 111. 



Tkhav, Charlotte, 

London, England. 

TiGHE, Rev. Denis, 

Hyde Park, 111. 

TooLEY, James W., 

New York City. 

ToNG, Lucius G., LL.B., 

South Bend, Ind. 

Tre.^cy, James J., 

Philadelphia, Pa. 

Treacy, Rev. P. A., 

Washington, D. C. 

TREA.CY, Rev. W. P.. S.J.. 

Gonzaga College, Washington, D.C. 



Wallace, Dr. William B., 

New Y'ork City. 

Walsh, Very Rev. Thomas E., C.S C, 

University of Notre Dame, Notre 
Dame, Ind. 

Walsh John, 

New York City. 

Waylen, Miss Elizabeth E., 

Philadelphia, Pa. 



Zettler, Louis, 

Columbus, O. 



